


Between Shadow and Soul

by holly_writes_things



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Ketsu, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-02
Updated: 2017-10-18
Packaged: 2018-12-10 04:19:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11683917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holly_writes_things/pseuds/holly_writes_things
Summary: “Do you think he’s still alive?”“He is.”Surprised, Tom tilted his head to the side. “How do you know?”Shizuo looked up at the murky blue sky. “No real reason.”or"AU where everything is black and white until you meet your soulmate, additionally, when your soulmate dies, the world goes back to black and white." -mymiclon





	1. As Time Goes

**Author's Note:**

> Set after Durarara!! Ketsu/Volume 13 when Izaya is MIA but before Durarara!! SH

Ikebukuro was caught between seasons. The cherry blossoms weren’t far from blooming, but frost still clung to the streets on early mornings and the wind hadn’t lost its wintertime chill. Still, every so often there came a day when the clouds would part and the sun shone brightly, assuring that warmer days were on their way. With these whispers of spring, the city felt on the verge of something new. 

However on this particular day, it was still far too cold for Shizuo and Tom to enjoy their lunch break outside, and they took comfort in the warmth of a fast food restaurant. They sat in a corner booth, and Shizuo watched people pass by the window while Tom reviewed the list of clients they still needed to visit before their day’s work was over. 

Tom folded the paper with a sigh. “Still seven more, we’re getting slower.” 

Shizuo took a bite of his burger and spoke through a mouthful of food, “-t’s the weather.” He swallowed, “Actually, you’ve been distracted.” 

Tom flushed. "I-I can't imagine what makes you say that." 

"Today you mixed up two different clients and yesterday you sent us to the wrong apartment," Shizuo’s shoulders sank slightly, "I broke down an innocent man's door." 

Tom's eyes darted around the room as he searched desperately for some sort of escape. Finding none, he tapped his fingers on the table and looked guiltily up as Shizuo. “I’m doing something tonight, it’s a bit peculiar and well...I’m a little nervous.” 

Shizuo cocked his head to the side, silently inviting him to continue. 

“There’s a speed dating event tonight at the convention center.” Tom twisted a napkin in his hands. “And I’m going." 

Shizuo frowned. “How does that work?” 

“Seriously?” Tom raised his eyebrows and immediately launched into an explanation. “Well it first requires an even number of men and women, all seated across from each other. Each date lasts three minutes and then all the men stand up and shift one table to the left and-” 

“No-No, I know how it _works_ ,” Shizuo sipped thoughtfully from his glass of milk, “but it doesn't make much sense. Like, what if you meet her on the first go-around? Then you gotta cycle through the next twenty or thirty or however many before you get to talk to her again.” 

Tom scratched his head. “Well it’s not really for _that_.” 

“It’s not?” 

“Have you ever heard of someone meeting their soulmate at a speed dating event?” 

Shizuo hadn’t. “Well then why go in the first place? It seems like a waste of time.” 

Tom chewed his lip. “There are a lot of reasons people do it. Some want to gain experience before the real thing comes along, but plenty others are just bored and want to have fun meeting new people." He looked embarrassed, and tried to justify the practice. “It’s becoming quite common.” 

If that was true, Shizuo had never before felt so removed from the milieu of "average" human behavior. He chewed his food with his brow furrowed, because nothing had ever made less sense to him. 

Tom was still red in the face, but his embarrassment seemed to have faded away into a heavy sadness. He bowed his head. “It just...gets lonely waiting, you know?” 

Shizuo didn’t know. He stood up, “I’m going out for a smoke.” 

Out on the sidewalk, Shizuo leaned back against the restaurant wall. Despite the weather, the city was busy that day, like most days, and waves of people crisscrossed in front of him, crowding all public and private areas. Ikebukuro was as peaceful as it had been in years—was as peaceful as a city its size ever _could_ be—but Shizuo felt disappointed nevertheless. 

Celty had spent the last six months touring the Japanese countryside with Shinra, and it was times like this when Shizuo missed her deeply. Her presence had been one of the few things that bettered him, and he felt wholly worse off in her absence. 

He had asked her once, idly, if she could see colors. He had been surprised, shocked even, when she began to type rapidly; usually considered a highly private topic, whether or not one held the ability to see colors was not something people generally went around asking one another. 

[Because I don’t see the same way humans do, I don’t know exactly what people mean when they say ‘see in color’. I am able to distinguish between colors, and I know what pigments are considered to be “red” and “yellow” and so on, but they may not appear to me the same way they appear to humans. It’s also possible that l see in a variety of colors humans are unable to see. I just don’t know.] 

At the time, that had only confused Shizuo, as it still did now. He had then, intrusively, asked if Shinra could see color. She began to type once more, and this time he had fully expected her to tell him it was none of his business, but when she turned her PDA towards him it only expressed her fears. 

[We think that because I’m not human the rule doesn’t apply to him.] Her shoulders slumped slightly. [At least, I hope it doesn’t.] And then she was off, typing frantically, [Shinra might not be able to see in color because his soulmate isn’t human…or simply because I am not his soulmate. Some woman could come along one day and show him a completely new world.] 

Shizuo had only been able to blink dumbly at her. He remembered being stunned by the amount thought she had given the subject, having given it very little himself. To be fair, he supposed he had ample reason not to do so. At the time he had comforted her and told her lot to worry. He had also promised to maim Shinra on the off chance he _did_ leave her for another woman, and finished bitterly, "Personally, I think the whole system is screwed up anyway." 

Celty’s shoulders bounced with laughter and she flashed him another message. [That’s very like you.] She paused for a moment and Shizuo could tell she was analyzing him. [I don’t think I agree with you though, I don’t know a lot about color, but it sounds like a nice thing to be able to give someone.] 

Back in the present, Shizuo tossed his cigarette to ground and stomped it out. He always had a feeling that Celty knew, even though he had never told her. 

Izaya’s absence had gone marginally unnoticed by most. Certainly it went unnoticed by the city; the city remained as strange as ever, collecting an odd brand of people seemingly unique to Ikebukuro. In the two years Izaya had been gone, a new wave of inhabitants had migrated to the city, many of whom had never even heard of the infamous informant. Shizuo thought they were lucky. 

His eyes fell on a particularly striking young man making his way leisurely down the sidewalk. 

The door chimed as Tom stepped out of the restaurant. 

“Ready?” 

Shizuo didn’t answer and Tom followed his gaze. The man was short and dressed in all black, but his most prominent attribute was the dramatic coat he wore. It was a coat with large amounts of fur lining the hood and hem. He was bespectacled and a little too young to be truly reminiscent of the missing informant, but his image still served as a strong reminder to them both. 

They watched until he was out of sight and then Tom began to back away slowly. He opened his mouth and proceeded with extreme caution. “Do you...do you think he’s still alive?” 

“He is.” 

Surprised, Tom tilted his head to the side. “How do you know?” 

Shizuo looked up at the murky blue sky. “No real reason.” 

A heavy gust of wind blew over them, ruffling passersby and rattling the restaurant door. The wind’s biggest offense however, were the papers it tore out of Tom's hands. He swore loudly as they spilled across the sidewalk. Several blew into the road and were swept away by passing cars, and they had recovered barely half of documents before it began to rain. 

"Great. Just great." Tom tossed the soaking papers into a nearby trashcan. Without them, they didn't know the names or addresses of their clients, or the amounts owed by each of them. "We'll have to go back to the office to reprint." The rain was heavy, and Tom glared up at the sky. "Let's take the train.” 

Most people appeared to have similar misgivings about the rain, because the train was extremely crowded. Tom and Shizuo were squeezed side by side, neither of them speaking. Tom kept checking his watch, and Shizuo suspected he was now worried about missing his event that evening. 

Shizuo frowned, and for the first time thought seriously about his place of employment. Like the speed dating event, he couldn't understand why, in a world where everyone could recognize their soulmate immediately, there would be any need for seedy online dating sites. Following that logic, he saw no reason for people to run up high debts on such websites, which in turn meant that he did not know why he was standing here on a train, the muscle behind a debt collection agency. That either meant that people were inherently both ungrateful and greedy, or it meant that the system was not as accurate as everyone pretended. He supposed he had reason to believe both. 

It would be naive to say that it had happened early for Shizuo. While it was true that most people met their soulmate in their mid-twenties, there were childhood friends who saw their first colors at barely the age of five, just as there senior citizens still viewing the world in black and white. 

Even so, while Shizuo knew it was not unusual to meet your soulmate at fifteen, that did not mean he had been expecting it. Then again, he had never exactly considered it a _meeting;_ for most people, the face of their soulmate was the first thing they saw in color, but of course that was only the conventional procedure, and he and Izaya had never once been conventional. At that distance, Shizuo could barely discern Izaya’s face at all. If someone were to ask him, he would say the first thing he really saw in color was the sky—but that wasn’t quite true. If someone were _really_ to ask him, he would probably tell them it was none of their business and then punch them in the face. 

At the time, Shizuo had stared up at Izaya while Izaya smirked down at him, but Shizuo had only watched him for a moment before quickly shifting his gaze upward. It had been a clear spring morning, and that day above Raira Academy Shizuo witnessed the brightest, most brilliant blue sky he would ever see in his life. He found it calming, this strange new hue, and blue was his favorite color long before he knew it by name. Stretching across the sky with unimaginable depth, it whispered peace and promised tranquility. 

He had eventually looked back at the window where Izaya stood, only to find it empty. Shizuo supposed he should have seen that as an indication of the fruitless years he would spend chasing after Izaya, but somehow he thought nothing of it, at least initially. 

What had Shizuo expected from his soulmate? Before meeting Izaya, he had considered the subject quite extensively. After meeting him...well, Shizuo preferred not to give it much thought. At fifteen, he had fondly imagined someone who could calm him when he lost control, someone who ultimately gave him the mental and emotional strength to overcome his physical strength. But more than anything, simply having a soulmate, just _having_ one, would mean that, his strength, anger, and violence aside, he was human. And that was all he truly wanted: a soulmate who could prove him human. Instead, Izaya had attacked him and called him a monster. 

Shizuo had spent that entire day searching for Izaya, who he only knew then as _the boy on the top floor_ , and he grew increasingly frustrated and terrified as the hours passed. Shizuo has only seen him once, from a considerable distance, which didn’t give him a lot to go on by way of appearance. At the time had fretted endlessly, worried that if couldn't find him today, then what about tomorrow? What if he never really got to meet his soulmate? Of course, how laughable such fears seemed to him now. 

And then there was that afternoon. His temper, antagonized by a few arrogant upperclassmen, coupled with his anxieties over Izaya’s whereabouts, had led to the utter destruction of the soccer field. And suddenly there he was. Suddenly there and suddenly happy. Happy and mocking. That was his first impression of Izaya. And late. Very, very late. Nevermind the agonizing day Shizuo had spent searching for him; his soulmate, it appeared, worked on his own schedule. 

Shinra was speaking, making introductions, and Shizuo felt rage swell inside him. It took hold of his body, and was rooted in an emotion he couldn't yet recognize as hurt. Then Izaya had opened his mouth, spoke words coated with malevolence and sarcasm, and the rest, as they say, was history. 

The train lurched and Shizuo bumped lightly into the man in front of him. 

“Oh, sorry.” 

The man turned to look at him, and Shizuo watched his genial expression melt into one of recognition and then terror. 

“Oi Shizuo,” Tom was on already on the platform, “it’s our stop.” 

Shizuo blinked. “Oh, right.” 

He exited the train, and he and Tom walked back to their office in silence. The rain had lightened slightly, but not enough to make the trip pleasant. 

Wherever Izaya was, Shizuo couldn’t say for sure what he was seeing. If the system had worked as it was supposed to, Izaya should have been able to see in the color the moment they met as well. However, it wasn't like they had ever discussed it, and the passing years had left him with the general impression that somewhere along the lines, the universe had erred. 

When Tom and Shizuo finally made it back to their crumbling office building, their boss was momentarily elated, mistaking their return for completion the day's tasks. After Tom explained their error, he began to scold them, albeit lightly. Lightly, because like everyone else, he feared Shizuo's temper. 

Tom quickly began to reprint the documents, glancing at the clock every few seconds, and Shizuo went to the bathroom. It was small and dingy, with a single uncovered light bulb hanging from the ceiling. He crossed to the sink and stared at his reflection in the mirror. He frowned at himself and then began washing his hands. 

He had washed his hands _that_ night too. Washed them a dozen times over. Blood that had never bothered him before had tainted his clothes and coated his skin, it filled the streets and sank into his pores. It stained these places, leaving tiny, residual spots in places he knew had long since been scrubbed clean. Izaya had requested to go to a hospital outside the city, and was effectively and swiftly extracted from Shizuo’s life. 

After returning to his apartment that night, Shizuo had spent an eternity hunched over his kitchen sink, silently washing his hands. They emerged pink and slightly puffy, irritated from all his vicious scrubbing. When he had finally finished, he withdrew his favorite mug from the cabinet and set it on the kitchen table. It was light blue, bought because it reminded him of the sky. He sat down directly across from it and waited. He waited for hours, praying, praying to anything, that it would stay the same pale shade blue. There was a single horrifying moment when Shizuo had lunged across the table, pulling it closer to his eyes, because the cup had definitely turned grey for several seconds. He squeezed too hard and it shattered in his hands. Blood—his own this time—covered his fingers once more. But he felt better when he saw it, because it remained a bright shade of scarlet. He fell asleep with his head on the kitchen table, whispering the same words over and over: _please, don’t let me be a killer, please_. 

In the two years Izaya had been gone, the colors had faded bit by bit, day by day, until Shizuo was only able to see the world in dull, vague hues. It was like the colors were only impressions of themselves, certainly distinguishable from one another, but lacking in vibrancy, like one of the filters found on a smartphone. 

There was a knock on the bathroom door. 

"Shizuo, are you done? We need to get going.” 

"Sure, just a second." 

Shizuo splashed water on his face and dried his hands. He found comfort in those faint colors; they meant that wherever Izaya was, whatever corrupt work he was doing, he was alive. The fact that the colors had faded considerably over the years certainly worried Shizuo, but as long as they remained, weak though they may be, he was able to keep his anxiety at bay. 

He exited the bathroom and he and Tom were off once more. It took several hours, and they finished just half an hour before Tom’s event was set to begin. Luckily, their final call for the day was only a few blocks down from the convention center and he could walk there without problem. Tom bid Shizuo a hasty goodbye and began to walk briskly down the street, but stopped after just ten steps. He suddenly turned and spoke with the air of man who knew he was about to regret speaking. “Hey, why don’t you come with me?” He shrugged and looked uncomfortable. “Even if you don’t approve, it may be good just for the experience.” 

Shizuo frowned at first, and then looked again at the sky. The light was slowly fading, but between the puffy white clouds, the sky remained a disappointing greyscale version of his favorite color. 

“Sure,” he said, “why not?” 

**** 

A few hours earlier, and several hundred miles away in the Nakagyo district of Kyoto, Izaya smirked down as his computer. 

Although it had been a long while since he had set foot in Ikebukuro, he had been unable to distance himself from the business of selling underground information. Unfortunately, it had been much easier to learn the ins and outs of a city he had lived in for decades. This new city—which was equally as bustling and secretive—had proven quite the challenge, and it did not help that he was now much less mobile than he had once been. These trials aside, Izaya has spent the last two years building his credibility and his client list. Or perhaps more accurately, he had spent the first year resting and recovering, doing very little work, and burning through majority of his savings. Now, for the first time in a long while, he was forced to think seriously about his finances and monthly income. He wasn’t struggling exactly, but certainly now lived much more modestly than he had grown accustomed to in Ikebukuro. 

It for this reason that he was now smiling down at his computer with such enthusiasm. He had just received an email from Kentaro Mishima, a politician with hidden ties to the yakuza. The email requested that he travel to America, more specifically, Los Angeles, for long-term reconnaissance work. 

While Izaya ordinarily did not do such extensive legwork (so to speak), especially after his injury, he knew Mishima was not fond of involving outsiders with his affairs, which meant none of the politician’s men had been able to gain the information he desired. This in turn meant that the job could prove very lucrative for Izaya, and if he performed well, it held the promise of future employment. 

Izaya carefully read the details of the assignment and frowned when he got to the bottom of the email. He was expected on a plane to LAX that very evening. This was undoubtedly meant as a subtle insult, and he had half a mind to reply to Mishima that his time was very valuable and he was forced to politely decline the job. However, just below the departure time was the initial payment offer. The long string of zeroes, coupled with the fact that the ticket was first-class, helped soften the blow to Izaya’s pride. 

He shut his laptop with a snap. “Well, I suppose I better pack.” 

He decided on just one suitcase—traveling with his wheelchair was difficult enough. He knew it was considerably warmer in a California this time of year and packed accordingly, folding t-shirts and light jackets into the suitcase. He did not own a pair of shorts, and instead packed several pair of black pants. 

He then began to sort through all of his technology. He had a long debate with himself about how many cell phones to bring, and showed what he thought was incredible restraint by only packing his primary laptop. 

Two hours later, Izaya waited in the lobby of his building for a taxi. There was a taxi stand just outside, but the front desk had called and request one that was wheelchair accessible. 

The injury did not bother him—physically and mentally—like it used to. In the beginning the reality of his condition had been very difficult to face, but now he comforted himself with cliché little mantras; things like _the pen is mightier than the sword_ , and _knowledge holds the true power_ , and other sayings of that sort. He could even stand, and walk a little, though not far. Still, he did not place himself in dangerous situations as frequently as he had before. His chair—though electric and top of the line—still made a loud _whirring_ sound which made stealth almost impossible. It was also undeniable that, should one of his jobs go sideways, he would not be able to escape; he understood that one day simply knowing his opponent’s darkest secrets would not save him. 

He checked his watch several times, and his cab finally arrived after half an hour. Izaya stood and walked the short distance to the passenger’s seat. The simple journey was much more difficult that he cared to admit, and he sat there catching his breath while the cabby loaded his chair into the back. He went to physical therapy while he had been hospitalized, but it had now been over a year since he had done any type of stretch or muscle training. He wasn’t opposed to getting better exactly, but he found the process embarrassing and disliked the personal invasion of a stranger, and for the most part he got on just fine with the chair. 

The cabby returned and Izaya requested to be taken to the international terminal of Kansai International Airport. A train would have been much cheaper, but it was easier for Izaya to travel by taxi and Mishima had promised any extra travel fees would be reimbursed. 

This splurge, unfortunately, proved to be a mistake. The taxi was clunky and slow, and the motor made a strange gurgling noise whenever the driver accelerated. The weather was abysmal and Izaya glared out the window, feeling disgruntled despite his turn of professional luck. He clicked his tongue in annoyance and the cab driver glanced sideways at him. 

“Where are you headed?” 

“Los Angeles.” Izaya made the words cold, in hopes of preventing any further conversation, but the warning was either not noticed or ignored. 

“Oh how cool, I’ve always wanted to travel to America. Have you been before?” 

“Yes.” 

His irritation now fully apparent, they rode in silence for another ten minutes. They pulled up to a stoplight. 

“Do you think you’ll be back in time for it?” 

Izaya turned to glare at him. “What?” 

The cab driver pointed out the window at a large billboard, brightly colored and advertising the city’s annual festival to celebrate the blooming of the cherry blossoms, held a little over a month from now. 

Izaya gritted his teeth. “I have no idea.” 

The cab driver sighed wistfully. “I hope you are, it’s always beautiful.” 

Izaya pressed his forehead to the cold window. “I’m not really a fan.” 

“Oh…” the cab driver shrugged, “good thing you’re leaving Japan then.” 

His face still pressed against the window, Izaya smirked. Although he would never admit it, would deny it under threat of death, the first color he ever saw, ever _really_ saw, was the vivid, pink flush of cherry blossoms. 

He supposed it was ironic, given the twisted nature of his relationship with Shizuo, that the first thing he saw in color was something so painfully overused and stereotypically romantic. If there was any real proof that the universe was a sentient thing, manufacturing soulmates on an assembly line, it was the world’s little ironies. To Izaya, these were as much a god as anything else. 

Standing on the top floor of Raira Academy, Shizuo’s face was just a small spec of color, and the branches had spread out like a great canopy below him—he was unable to look away. If he could have foreseen the embarrassment and self-ridicule he would endure as a result this, he would have shut his eyes or looked anywhere other than those stupid, overly-romanticized petals. Up until that day, and even after it, Izaya hadn’t been all too concerned with meeting his soulmate. More than excited or hopeful, he was just mildly curious. He was interested in meeting any sort of person who would, presumably, match his intellect and share his fascination with observing humans. 

Even so, he never liked the concept of soulmates because it felt like someone was telling him what to do; while most people would generally accept that the universe was more intelligent than themselves and therefore were willing to listen to it, Izaya, of course, was not. Still, not motivated enough to actually go search for his soulmate, he had instead skipped his first day of classes and spent the day experiencing the colors of the city—if he was honest, it had been disappointing to learn that the roads, sidewalks, and most buildings had not changed in hue at all. 

He returned to the Raira campus just in time to witness Shizu-chan decimating the school’s soccer fields, which made him mildly hopeful. When he said he thought they could have some fun together, he had meant it. While he hadn’t exactly been eager to meet his soulmate, he was intrigued by the idea of someone who would sit with him and—literally and figuratively—watch the city burn. He supposed that, to be fair to Shizuo, they _had_ wrecked Ikebukuro in a hundred different ways. 

Even so, Shizuo had not been what he wanted from his soulmate, which led Izaya to the conclusion that Shizuo was _not_ his soulmate. In his mind, it was a simple enough conclusion to draw; every rule had its exception, glitches could be found in even the most complex data, and that’s exactly what they were: an error in the system. Perhaps it worked based on intensity of emotion, and the universe had confused extreme hatred for something else. Izaya had thought on the subject extensively over the years, in hopes of finally arriving at an answer, and this was the explanation he favored most recently. 

Additionally, he doubted that Shizuo could see colors at all. While Izaya had been very careful to never mention colors to anyone close to him, he had, despite all his sources, been unable to detect a single instance of the beast ever letting one slip. Izaya thought it highly unlikely that Shizuo would be able to maintain that level of secrecy for so many years, so it was likely he couldn’t see them. Which suited Izaya just fine, of course. He gained the ability to see color through an error in the universe. Who was he to complain? He didn’t particularly care if this interfered with him meeting his real soulmate, not knowing if he even had one. He wasn’t sure why the colors had begun to fade since he had left Ikebukuro, but he had never been able to make sense of the situation in general, so he was not overly concerned. He doubted that Shizuo had spent the last two years slowly dying of a serious illness—he was not that lucky. 

Bumping up onto the curb, the cab driver’s abysmal parking job jerked Izaya from his thoughts. He waited to move until the cabby extracted his chair from the back and wheeled it right beside the door. Izaya tipped the man more than he should have and then went inside where his ticket was waiting for him at the front desk. 

He was given assistance all the way through security and to his gate, where he was briefly transferred to an airport-supplied wheelchair to board the plane, while his own chair was taken and stored with the other luggage. After what felt like one of the longest mornings of his life, he settled into his first-class seat by the window. 

While waiting for the airplane to take off, he flipped through the magazine in the seat-back pocket. He stopped at the large two-page spread the Los Angeles skyline. He stared at it and briefly entertained the idea of simply staying there. It would be a waste to lose all the clients and contacts he had made in Kyoto, but if he could sell information in Japan he could do it anywhere, and it may be worth it to move to a place with better weather. He considered investigating celebrities and selling their trysts to tabloids, and then chuckled because he knew that nothing would bore him more. He thought about moving to the capital, where there were endless politicians in fancy suits to entertain him. He knew that would bore him too though, eventually. During his time in Kyoto, he had known murders, mobsters, and other twisted geniuses much like himself, but there was nothing quite like Ikebukuro, nothing supernatural, nothing unexpected or terrifying. His job had been more difficult in Kyoto simply because the city had been foreign to him, but in many ways it had been easier as well, easier because it was predictable. 

Eventually the captain came over the intercom and informed the passengers that they were about to take off. Izaya buckled his seat belt and closed his window shade. A flight attendant passed between the rows of seats, making last minute checks and preparations, and a few minutes later the plane way off, hurtling hundreds of miles an hour through the air. 

Izaya settled back into his seat and closed his eyes. He fell asleep easily. 

He awoke a few hours later, shaken from slumber by a bit of turbulence. The cabin lights had been dimmed so that passengers could sleep, and it was very dark. He lifted the window shade slightly and peeked out at the sky. His heart shot upward into his throat and he threw the shade all the way open. The captain’s voice crackled through the intercom while Izaya stared in horror out at the slate-grey sky and an asphalt colored ocean. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!!!!!
> 
> I've been knocking this fic around my head for like 3 years and was finally able to pull together all the scribbles I made. This chapter was a lot of history and set up but next chapter should have much more action and interaction! Incidentally ch2 is finished already so you can expect an update in about a week! (probably less than that tbh because I'm impatient)
> 
> Considering long-term plans, while I have most of the chapters plotted out this will be my "fic that i work on when I'm burnt out on my main fic" so updates will likely not be too fast OTL. That said, these chapters are a lot shorter than I'm accustomed to, so writing them will be easier on that front!
> 
> If you have questions please feel free to comment or hmu on [tumblr!](http://mywholelifetoo.tumblr.com/)
> 
> NEXT CHAPTER: Shizuo leaves several drunk voicemails and Izaya has a choice to make.


	2. To Be Missed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shizuo leaves several drunk voicemails and Izaya has a choice to make.

Shizuo sprinted out of the convention center and into the street. Several cars veered dangerously into other lanes, earning him honks and a series of curses. A dark sedan swerved and skidded ten feet, hitting Shizuo square in the chest; not too hard, and certainly not hard enough to hurt him, but he was carried off his feet and rolled up onto the hood. Several onlookers screamed in horror and the driver opened his door to shout a long list of profanities, but Shizuo did not hear any of them. He lay on his back on the stranger’s hood and stared blankly upwards. The sun was just beginning to sink below the skyline, but it was unimpressive, an ashen sunset, and the horizon was decorate with simple rings of dark grey, medium grey, and light grey. 

It had happened during the speed dating seminar. One moment Shizuo was talking uncomfortably to a pretty young woman with scarlet lipstick, and the next second the blush on her cheeks was impossible to distinguish from her skin, her lips the color of concrete. 

Shizuo felt a pair of hands pulling him off the hood. Tom had chased after him and was now attempting to help him to his feet. The driver of the car was still yelling, but silenced immediately when he caught a good enough look at Shizuo’s face to recognize him. He stopped mid-sentence and quickly climbed back inside his car and sped away. 

Tom brushed him off. “Are you alright? What the hell happened?” 

“I needed to leave.” Shizuo didn’t look him in the eye. “You go back, I’ll be fine.” 

“I think it’s canceled,” Tom said, “you broke a hole in the wall.” 

“Oh.” Shizuo frowned. He didn’t really remember exiting the building. “Sorry.” He felt bad for ruining Tom’s evening, but his head was spinning and he didn’t have the capacity to feel guilty to the full extent that he should have. “I need tomorrow off.” 

Tom’s brow furrowed. “Okay sure, what should I tell the boss?” 

“Tell him I got hit by a car.” Shizuo shrugged and began to walk away. He turned down unknown roads and sidewalks and looked out at the city lights; the traffic signals, the flashing signs and billboards were disarming. They were bright but colorless, bright but ugly. His own ghastly reflection looked back at him from every shop window. He covered his ears with his hands and tried to think; he needed somewhere away from the lights and the people and the noise. Running in a full out sprint, he took several small side streets that ended in a grimy alleyway. 

It was far darker here than it was on the main street, hidden in the shadows between two brick walls. He had to take care not to step on trash or in dirty puddles, but Shizuo was glad for the peace. He leaned back against one wall to catch his breath, but his mind was running far faster than he had been, and he could barely begin to follow one train of thought before it was swept away by another, impossible to identify or latch onto. He shook his head violently from side to side. He decided to stop thinking and let himself simply react. He roared and punched a hole in the wall across from him. That made him feel a little better, but not a lot. He took out his phone and stared down at a contact he had neither called nor deleted in the past two years. He pressed a thumb to the _Call_ button. 

It rang several times and he was ultimately greeted by a robotic female voice. 

_The caller you are trying to reach-_

He hung up and called again. 

_The caller-_

He pressed the _End_ button so hard he thought his phone would snap in half. After a moment’s hesitation he texted Celty, deciding that he was finally ready to lay all his secrets bare and tell her the truth. 

[Sorry to bother you on when you’re on vacation. I really need some advice.] 

He lit a cigarette and waited. Celty was usually very quick to respond, but he suspected Shinra was keeping her occupied because twenty minutes passed with no answer. During that time he burned through three cigarettes and his mind began to churn out thoughts once again, albeit much slower this time. The disappearance of the colors did not necessarily mean that Izaya was dead; maybe the colors were just...gone. Maybe they had finally faded away into obscurity, as they had been for the past two years. He knew that made very little sense, and truthfully he did not believe it, but the flimsy explanation comforted him nevertheless. 

He threw his cigarette at the opposite wall and it exploded in a flare of white ash. Orange. He knew the ends of his cigarettes always burned orange, but not now. He lit another and went cross-eyed looking at the ash each time he brought it to his lips. Grinding his teeth, Shizuo pulled his phone back out of his pocket and called Izaya once more. This time he let the recording play in full. 

_At the tone, please record your message._

It beeped, but he didn’t say a word. The timer on the screen told him that thirty seconds had passed. Ultimately he punctuated the silent message with a single, violent “FUCK!” and then hung up. He imagined Izaya’s mocking expression. _Nice. Really nice, Shizu-chan. Effective. Good communication_. He roared in frustration and smashed a dumpster with both his fists. Breathing heavily, he straightened up. He looked at the products of his deconstruction—the hole in the wall and the caved-in dumpster—and decided that he needed a new approach: he didn’t really like the taste of alcohol, but from what he had seen on television and in movies, it was invaluable at times like this. He had never been drunk before, but he had spent a lot of time sober and at the moment he was not a very big fan of it. 

He left his dingy alley and walked to the nearest convenience store. Beer was kept at the back in the refrigerators, and he immediately felt overwhelmed by the number of available brands. Shizuo did not know how much it took to get an average sized person drunk, let alone someone with his unique physical attributes. Making a gut decision about brand and number, he handed fifteen cans of Asahi to the clerk. 

“I hope this will be enough.” 

The man gaped at him. “Uh...yeah I think so.” He eyed Shizuo. “Aren’t you a bartender?” 

Shizuo glared at him and paid without a word, and then headed back to his apartment with three grocery bags in his hands. When he arrived home he set all fifteen cans on his kitchen table and divided them up into sets of five. His plan was to call Izaya three more times, once each time he finished five beers. 

Drinking the first five cans took him a very long time, partially because they tasted bad and he kept watering them down, and partially because he kept having to stop to go to the bathroom. When he finished the fifth can he sat at the table and stared at the phone in his hands, planning his words carefully; the beer must have started to kick in, because he struggled to remember what he was going to say. 

He waited for the instructive beep and then cleared his throat. This first message he thought was very good: short, to the point, and coherent, but also expressing a certain urgency. He congratulated himself by opening his sixth beer. The next five went down more quickly, and he distracted himself while he drank by watching TV. It was odd, but the late-night comedy shows he had never really enjoyed before were suddenly hilarious. 

He realized he had finished the second set of five when he was already halfway through with his eleventh can. He immediately put it down and pulled out his phone. He did not plan this voicemail as well as the previous one, but intended to reiterate many of the same points. When he finally hung up, his phone told him that his message was five minutes long. He frowned and had a very difficult time remembering all the things he had said. He vaguely recalled talking about the colors being gone, something he had not meant to reveal. He glared at the eleventh beer can sitting on the table and pointed an accusing finger at it. 

“Your fault.” 

He knew for certain that milk would never do this to him. Because his most recent voicemail had been a disaster, Shizuo decided to concede defeat to the four and a half remaining cans of beer. He also decided not to call Izaya again. If he didn’t respond it wouldn’t necessarily answer any of Shizuo’s questions, but Shizuo didn’t think there was much else he could do to try and contact the missing informant; he honestly didn’t even know if Izaya’s phone number was still the same. 

The manic joy he had felt while watching TV suddenly faded and he felt very upset. He turned it off and checked his phone for the third time in five minutes, but there was nothing from Izaya or Celty. He let it slip down in his hands and rested his head on the table. He felt lonely. He let his thoughts wander, and was only vaguely aware that he was mumbling; his lips moved softly against the table. It was then that he remembered something, something he had thought frequently back when he and Izaya used to fight every day on 60-Story Street: _it may be worth not killing Izaya, just so that the colors remained._ He mentally agreed with his past-self, and then fell asleep. 

He awoke a few hours later with a large amount of drool pooling onto the table. He immediately checked his phone, but there were no new notifications. Groaning, he stood up. He had easily withstood fists, bullets, and a variety of other weapons, but alcohol had done the most damage and left him with the most aches to date. _Amazing_ , he thought. He stumbled to his bedroom. It was still dark outside, but he drew the curtains. He climbed into bed without bothering to change his clothes and pulled the covers over his head. 

**** 

While externally Izaya portrayed only the utmost calm, his thoughts were approaching frantic. His initial shock at seeing the sky and ocean suddenly, terribly colorless, was nothing compared to the following seven hours of thought and introspection. He waved off the stewardess every time she tried to serve him snacks or drinks, and spent the rest of the flight inside his own head, sweating and thinking. His first thought was of course the obvious one: perhaps Shizuo had died. He honestly did not believe that anything could kill the resilient beast of Ikebukuro, but the thought still gnawed at him, festering just beneath the surface of his skin as he tried to think of other explanations. 

He had come no closer to finding an answer when they finally arrived in Los Angeles. He had to wait for most of the other passengers to exit the plane before a stewardess brought him yet another airport-supplied wheelchair and pushed him up the ramp to the gate where his own chair was waiting for him. He was on his own from that point, and set off to collect his suitcase at the baggage claim. People passed by him in all directions, but he noticed none of them and felt no joy at finally arriving at his destination. Instead, a feeling that was dark and nagging feeling crept into his stomach. It was something that he was not accustomed to: indecision. 

He arrived at the baggage claim early and took the opportunity to check the three cellphones he had brought with him—one for work, one for personal, and one for when he didn’t want people to know it was him. He has several new emails from potential clients on his work phone, as well as an email from Mishima wishing him safe travels. His personal phone was used much less often; there weren’t many people who he wished to have reoccurring communication with, and a very small number of those people desired to have frequent contact with him. 

He prepared to immediately return the phone to his pocket, but when he turned it on the screen lit up with notifications and vibrated several times. Izaya stared at it, and thought that perhaps he would not have to work so hard to find the answers he sought. The contact “Shizu-chan” had called him six times and left four voicemails. There was a tiger emoji next to his name—when Izaya had created the contact, it was as close as he could find to a beast. The emoji itself was cute, but that was hardly his fault. 

The first voicemail was a full thirty seconds of silence ending with a single “FUCK!” so loud that he had to pull the phone away from his ear. _Eloquent as always_ , Izaya thought. Still, that answered one his questions. Official prognosis: not dead. 

The second voicemail actually contained full sentences, though the words were slightly slurred. 

“Izaya...” Izaya almost dropped the phone because for just a moment, as fast as blinking, he swore the sign pointing towards arrivals had flashed green. “I-um, I mean _Flea_.” Izaya made a face at the sound of Shizuo burping. “Where are you? Some stuff happened. Call me.” 

Baggage was begging to roll out now, and people crowded around the carousel, but Izaya was not paying the least bit attention or looking for his suitcase. In the third voicemail, Shizuo had apparently started talking before the _beep_ instructed him to do so. 

“-the fuck didn’t we ever talk about this? It’s not gonna be fun or easy but the world is so ugly like this. It hasn’t made any sense since I was fifteen and I think I’ve been pretty patient—you know, for me—and I never tried to find reasons or answers even though I’m sure you’ve probably manipulated a scientist or philosopher into explaining it to you.” There was a sound like a fist slamming onto a table. “And look I don’t really _want_ to talk to you and I’m sure you don’t want to talk to me but we should talk about _this_. You can throw knives at me while I chase you down the street with a stop sign I don’t care but we need to talk about it so...so call me.” 

Izaya kept the phone raised to his ear even after the message ended. Under usual circumstances, he would have laughed condescendingly at Shizu-chan’s poor attempt at being existential. As it was, it seemed that the beast of Ikebukuro had revealed a little more than he had intended, and in the process answered another of Izaya’s questions: Shizuo could see the colors too, at least, up until a few hours ago. Interesting. Izaya wasn’t exactly sure why, but he was getting excited. 

The fourth and final voicemail had been received less than an hour earlier. It was twenty minutes long, entirely pointless, and left Izaya was the impression that Shizuo hadn’t intended to call him at all. It was mostly incoherent mumbling, but once or twice his voice rose audibly, his words muffled and slurred. Most notably, he had exclaimed with a surprising amount of anguish, “I’m so drunk but beer still tastes like shit!” and “How does Izaya drink this stuff?” followed by ten minutes of snoring. 

Izaya frowned and put his phone away. His suitcase was the only one circling the luggage carousel now, and everyone else had cleared away. He sat there and mentally sorted through the new information. A lot had happened in the past few hours, but he understood that he now held all the cards. He certainly had a better grasp of the situation than Shizuo did, and he felt it like electricity running up his spine—the thrill of once more having the upper hand. 

But that was not all. While Shizu-chan was undeniably his rival, Izaya’s _true_ opponent, the one he had battled since birth, was the universe. He would admit that this had been mostly one-sided for a number of years, but it appeared that their showdown had suddenly experienced a very large development; the universe had struck, brought its rook out of hiding and threatened his king. But it was Izaya’s turn, and whatever might happen now, it was his choice. 

Not that he exactly had a lot of options; he was currently five thousand miles away from Japan and he had a job to do after all, it wasn’t like he could hop on the quickest flight back to Ikebukuro. But he wanted to. He _really_ wanted to. Still, there was a reason he had never returned during the past two years, although he missed it; there wasn’t much left for him there, just a lot of enemies and no friends. And a question, one of immense weight and impact, that had he had carried with him since he was fifteen. 

A course of action decided, Izaya finally collected his suitcase from the baggage claim and circled back around to the departure gates. Near the exit, he passed by a man in a driver’s uniform holding a paper sign that read “Orihara”. Izaya avoided his gaze and instead moved to speak with an elderly ticketing attendant. The quickest flight to Haneda Airport. Yes he had a ticket to exchange. Yes he needed additional assistance. 

The quickest flight was not for another four hours, so he located the VIP lounge where he was able to shower and eat a full meal. He sent a hasty email to Mishima, explaining that something urgent had come up and he needed to return to Japan immediately. He made it clear that he was still interested in supplying his services, though the work would be delayed, if Mishima was still interested in employing him at all. After that he considered calling Shizuo back, but decided that showing up unannounced in Ikebukuro after two years was more his style. 

All that done, he still had plenty of time to stop and reconsider, plenty of time to step back and wonder, _what the fuck am I doing?_ But somehow the thought did not occur to him until he was waiting for the plane to take off, sitting once more in a spacious first-class seat. By then of course, it was too late. 

He kept his window shade open this time, and gazed out it with his chin resting in his hand. It happened gradually, and at first he thought he was imagining it. Slow they were, and slowly they returned, the brilliant blue of the Pacific Ocean, the gentle color of the sky. It surprised him at first, but then he simply felt pissed off. He felt like the universe was mocking him; it had ruined his professional goals and made him fly back to Japan for no reason at all. He angrily snapped the window shade shut and closed his eyes, still with ten hours ahead of him to ponder what it could possibly mean. 

Upon his arrival in Haneda, he once more sat in the busy baggage claim trying to decide what to do. Even if it made the most sense, he did not much feel like taking yet another long flight back to Los Angeles. He checked his multiple phones once more, and while there was nothing new from Shizuo, Mishima had left him a very nasty email, stating that Izaya was expected in Los Angeles in ten days or he could forget the job _and_ was expected to pay back the price of his airfare. 

Izaya read the email with a frown. He doubted he could get to the bottom of this _and_ defeat the universe is just ten days, but apparently he was going to try. 

He took the train to Ikebukuro, and as he watched familiar buildings and shops fly past the window it finally hit him; he was in Tokyo, he was back. He avoided many of the main streets when he arrived at his stop, not wanting his presence to be known just yet. He splurged on a hotel that was realistically beyond his budget, but felt that he deserved it after having back-to-back ten-hour flights. His room was on the top floor and offered a fantastic view of the skyline that he had missed more than he would care to admit. He showered yet again, and then took great care in dressing himself for his return to the city that he felt had betrayed him. It was the city that had been his home for so many years, and, if he was being honest with himself, still was. 

He donned the same outfit that he wore when he used to live there; the black pants and shirt, the jacket that made him immediately recognizable. Powerful, infamous. He sat on the bed and gazed at his wheelchair, knowing that no matter how he dressed, the chair took away majority of his former aura. The thought made him feel only a little disappointed. 

When he felt ready, he took the elevator down to the hotel lobby. He was not overwhelmingly concerned with locating Shizu-chan at that moment. It was a weekday so the beast was likely working anyway, and Izaya felt that like always, if he entered Ikebukuro Shizuo would find him. He rolled down the familiar city streets, scanning each stranger’s face for some sign of recognition, but he found none. After half an hour he decided to switch gears and instead searched for a face that _he_ recognized, but was equally as unsuccessful. He felt annoyed, and decided to go to a place where he both knew and was known; it was still early, and he knew exactly where he wanted to eat for breakfast. 

**** 

While Izaya felt the exhaustion of multiple long-distance flights, Shizuo was experiencing the first ever hangover of his life and felt similarly afflicted. He burrowed further beneath his covers as the morning sunlight began to creep through the cracks of his curtains. He couldn’t fall asleep exactly, but walked along the shores of consciousness, allowing the tide of sleep to just barely lap at his feet and ankles. He stayed that way until the sounds of traffic outside his window became impossible to ignore. Shizuo blinked his eyes open, still dark and foggy beneath his blankets. His head pounded, but he congratulated himself on defeating the alcohol-induced vomiting that so often accompanied a night of drinking. He laid there for another ten minutes before he decided to face the inevitable: he had to pee. 

He sat up too quickly and the room spun. His stomach, perhaps not so easily conquered, churned dangerously. Feeling the heave in his gut and the reflex in his throat, Shizuo lunged over the edge of his bed, emptying all his food from yesterday onto the floor. His gaze slid in and out of focus as the smell rose thickly into his nostrils and he gagged again. Chunks of his burger from the day before floated in the rotten puddle, pale and orange. 

Giving up on his quest for the bathroom, Shizuo flopped back against his bed. A thick cloud swelled inside his head and his thoughts formed very slowly, but he felt like he was missing something important. The smell of beer and stomach acid wafted upward like smoke and he wrinkled his nose. 

Orange. 

Forcing his eyes to focus, he noticed for the first time the dark green of his comforter and the pale yellow of his bedside clock. He climbed out of bed as quickly as his stomach would permit and hurried to the window. He threw the curtains open, immediately blinded by the sudden light of day. He felt a certain tug deep in his gut, something unrelated to the nausea, something familiar and urgent, and as his eyes adjusted to the brilliance of the sun, he stared up at the most calming blue sky he had seen in years. 

**** 

As Izaya rolled into Russia Sushi, it did not fall silent like he had expected. Simon looked up from behind the counter where he was chopping vegetables, his knife hovering an inch above the cutting board, but very few customers ended their conversations to stare at him. Izaya had to admit that it was a bit disheartening. Not quite so missed, or perhaps not as infamous as he had believed. Simon, at least, greeted him warmly. 

“Izaya! So long it’s been. Come, sit, eat. Where have you been? Your business is much missed.” 

“I’ve missed the food.” Izaya lied. He parked his wheelchair and without too much difficulty hoisted himself up onto a stool at the counter. 

“Much changed since you leave.” Simon commented, bringing him a cup of tea and a menu. 

Izaya’s jaw clenched. _Leave_ , Simon had said. Izaya did not think it was a very fitting word. He supposed in the minds of most people he had left, but that was not the way he saw it. 

He did not bother looking at the menu. “I’ll have whatever the special is today.” 

Simon raised a hand and pointed to a hanging sign that held the two options, one that looked like a set of sashimi with mashed potatoes, and one that held the appearance of tempura but the consistency of Jell-O. Each option was labeled with a different color. Simon posed the question casually. “Red special or Green special?” 

“The-” Izaya stopped himself, “the one of the left.” 

Simon nodded and smiled before turning away and beginning to prepare his food. Izaya watched his back as he worked. 

“Nice try, Simon.” 

“Try what?” 

“Simon,” Izaya leaned forward. He realized that, in trying to trick Izaya, the Russian chef had inadvertently revealed something about himself, “can you see colors?” 

Simon looked over his shoulder at Izaya. There was no one else seated at the counter. “I could.” 

Izaya gave the customary reaction. “Oh. I’m sorry.” 

His back still turned to Izaya, Simon nodded slowly. “She live in my home country with husband and two children.” 

Izaya blinked. “She-sorry, she lives?” 

“Yes. Very happy.” 

Izaya felt his own expression twisting in confusion. “But-so you _can_ see them?” 

Simon turned and served Izaya what he knew was the Red Special. 

“I cannot.” 

Izaya was now very interested and leaned forward. “How does that work?” 

**** 

Shizuo did not think he had the balance or patience to take a shower, but he stuck his head under the sink and brushed his teeth. He felt a little better after that, and then tried calling Izaya again. Like before, he received no answer, but an apologetic text from Celty arrived moments later. He typed her a quick message. 

[Sorry. Something’s happened. Fill you in soon.] 

He changed his clothes and drank two glasses of milk, still feeling more or less miserable, but very motivated. He left his apartment and hurried out into the street. He admired the colorful outfits on passersby, stared for whole minutes at the green buds of blossoming trees, and even felt an odd fondness for the yellow of his own hair. He marveled at these things as if they were brand new, because Izaya was here. He knew it, felt it like a blow to the chest, sharp and familiar like the feeling of a cigarette between his fingertips: the prickle along the back of his neck that accompanied Izaya’s every arrival in Ikebukuro. It was a feeling impossible to forget or replicate, one that whispered youth and catalyzed memory. 

Three hours later, he felt considerably less optimistic. He had exhausted nearly location, each of Izaya’s old haunts and hangouts. It felt like time had turned backwards, back to the day they met and he was searching fruitlessly for Izaya once more. Except that day he had sought the half-glimpsed face of a stranger, now he chased a long-absent ghost. Although his certainty did not fade, it was quite disheartening, and by the time he finally found Izaya inside Russia Sushi, Shizuo felt more than a little annoyed. 

Izaya sat at the counter with chopsticks in his hand, chatting freely with Simon as if he had never left. But he _had_ left Ikebukuro, and now he was back. Shizuo stood motionless in the doorway and this time the shop really did fall silent, because unlike Izaya, his reputation had remained largely unchanged during the past two years. Izaya was the only one who did not look up from his food. Shizuo stood there and waited for a moment, but Izaya did not turn towards him. 

Every customer was staring now, whether they knew Izaya was or not, they understood the dark expression on Shizuo’s face. Simon’s shoulders tensed, prepared to intervene if necessary. Shizuo shut the door harder than he had meant to, and the action sent shockwaves through the building, shaking the restaurant at its foundation, rattling the plates and tables. Izaya placed a hand on the countertop for balance but still did not look at him. 

Shizuo stood just inside the restaurant, feeling the flames of anger creep up his neck, turning his face red. He had not exactly imagined some grandiose reunion, the stuff from movies, but he had passed an incredibly long night attempting the contact the flea, _and_ had spent hours searching that very morning, but Izaya simply sat at the counter and kept eating his sushi without looking at him. 

Shizuo stepped forward and a single word rolled from his throat like a growl. “Izaya.” 

Izaya’s hand suddenly disappeared inside his jacket and then swung wide, a familiar knife brandished towards him. Every muscle in Shizuo’s body screamed with the instinct to react, every nerve alight with the promise of a habit, coiled tight and staring at the blade that guaranteed nostalgia. But the knife did not leave Izaya’s fingers. He simply kept it raised, perfectly still and pointed in Shizuo’s direction. He _still_ did not look up, but his voice trilled with sarcasm. 

“Is this a knife in my pocket, or do you actually look happy to see me?” 

Shizuo stared at him, a little surprised, mostly dumbfounded. He took another step forward. “I don’t think that’s how that saying goes.” 

Izaya shrugged and put the knife away. 

Shizuo waited another moment and then walked the rest of the way towards him. He appraised Izaya during these few seconds, and arrived at the conclusion that the informant had changed very little in his time away. He remained calm as Shizuo approached, his expression entirely blank, just perhaps a little cold. The only physical tell of defense was the ever-so-slight hunch of his shoulders. Shizuo observed this tick and thought it was odd. 

“You’re back.” 

“Clearly.” Izaya waved a hand as if to demonstrate his own existence. 

“Why?” 

Izaya shrugged. “I missed Simon’s cooking.” 

Behind the counter, Simon waved a hand. “Too kind! Too kind!” 

Shizuo frowned. They had never been very good at speaking with one another, but this meeting was not going nearly as well as Shizuo had hoped. He knew that from Izaya’s perspective there was no pretense for them to talk at all, and it was not like either of them felt the trust necessary for honest communication. Unable to decide on another course of action, Shizuo was just about to take his own seat at the counter when Izaya suddenly stood up, throwing down several bills beside his plate. 

“It was great, Simon. You can keep the change.” 

Shizuo stood petrified, watching in stunned silence as Izaya, clutching the counter for support, slowly lowered himself into a wheelchair that Shizuo had not noticed before that moment. Izaya took the joystick in his hand and motored toward Shizuo, stopping just in front of him. It was then that he looked up at Shizuo for the first time, his eyes flashing, his lips tight but smiling. It was the type of look that said a hundred different things, and Shizuo could not identify any of them. 

“Do you mind?” 

Almost immediately, Shizuo stepped aside and Izaya rolled past him. Faster than Shizuo would have thought possible, the door swung shut behind him. Absolutely speechless, Shizuo turned to look at Simon. He was only vaguely aware that he no longer had a reason to be standing there at all. Simon looked at him for just a moment before he began to clear away Izaya’s plate. 

“Answers are not here.” 

Shizuo swallowed. He knew that was true, but Izaya didn’t seem very willing to give him answers either. “Did he say anything?” 

“We have...nice talk.” Simon thought for a moment. “I think Izaya also has many questions.” 

Shizuo took just a moment to process those words and then he headed for the exit. 

“Fighting very bad.” Simon’s voice stopped him. “But if you must, go easy.” 

Shizuo had one foot out the door and had to turn to glare back at Simon. The thought of physically injuring Izaya had not yet crossed his mind—although that didn’t mean it never would—but he felt with overwhelming certainty that he would never hit someone in a wheelchair. 

Simon only stared back at him, and eventually Shizuo let the door swing shut without saying anything, feeling disgruntled as he stepped back out into the street. The crowd was strong, and his feelings of irritation were quickly replaced with fear that he had lost Izaya among the many heads that lined the sidewalk. Shizuo took off one direction, not sure if it was the right one, and breathed a sigh of relief as he glimpsed Izaya’s wheelchair roughly fifty feet down. Shizuo caught up to him easily. 

“You sure are persistent,” Izaya smirked, “did you miss me?” 

“ _No_.” 

Izaya chuckled but did not respond, and Shizuo could not think of anything else to say at that moment, so he simply trailed a few feet behind him. He lit a cigarette and said nothing as he followed Izaya through two turns and down six blocks. He realized that Izaya was avoiding the main streets and that made him curious again. 

“Why did you really come back?” 

“I told you.” 

“You lied.” 

Izaya’s lips were pinned upward in a mocking smile. “What? Don’t you trust me?” 

“I _don’t_ trust you,” Shizuo growled, “but also no one would believe you traveled back from-from god knows where just for Simon’s cooking.” 

Izaya chuckled. “I don’t think he would appreciate your feedback. Where else can I get sushi with the side of mac-and-cheese? It’s certainly worth the trip from Kyoto.” 

Shizuo stopped walking. “That’s where you’ve been this whole time?” 

He saw the back of Izaya’s head bob forward in a single nod and Shizuo had to jog to catch up with him again. These past two years, Shizuo had felt certain Izaya was off terrorizing the citizens of some foreign country. For as far away as he had felt, he might as well have been in outer-space. 

Shizuo frowned. “If you came back just to eat at Russia Sushi then why are you avoiding the main roads?” 

Izaya hummed in amusement. “Oh my, he’s gotten smarter.” He held out his hand like someone who modeled prizes on a game show. “These side-streets are less busy and therefore much easier to navigate.” 

Shizuo was not sure how that made him feel, or how it was _supposed_ to make him feel, so he changed the subject. 

“When are you going back?” 

“Not sure.” Izaya turned a corner and was briefly lost from sight. 

“Will I see you again before you leave?” 

“Are you sure you didn’t miss me?” Izaya’s head turned and Shizuo just barely saw the shining corner of his eye. “I’m sure you will—see me again, that is.” 

Shizuo’s phone suddenly buzzed with another text from Celty. “Oh yeah, I called you, and left some voicemails. Did you get them?” 

“No.” 

Shizuo stopped walking again. His anger, so well restrained until that moment, suddenly burst to the surface like a long-dormant volcano. Shizuo did not believe it. Izaya had gone from missing to dead to alive to _here_ in less than a day, and now he sat in front of him giving nonchalant one-word answers like it was nothing. Shizuo smashed his fist into the side of a building. 

“Stop LYING.” 

His shoulders rose and fell with the tides of ebbing rage and he heard the sharp screams of other pedestrians, but theirs was not the reaction that surprised him; Izaya had flinched badly at the sound, and although he now held a knife ready and pointing at Shizuo, a small tremor ran through his hand. The roar in Shizuo’s ears faded as he watched Izaya, and his rage was replaced—at least momentarily—with curiosity. He straightened up. 

“What happened to you?” 

“What _happened_ to me?” In retrospect, this was not his most well-thought-out question, because Izaya’s lips curled into a sneer. “A beast broke both my legs and then a foreigner stabbed me. You know, the usual.” The words were comical but his expression was not funny at all, it was dark and angry, lined with blame. 

Shizuo felt his face fall as Izaya turned away from him. He had always thought of their fight in terms of extremes, he had either killed Izaya or he had not. But now he realized that the world was not so simple; alive did not mean fine, alive did not mean _just like normal_. 

“I did this?” The words were only whispered, and not really meant for Izaya or anyone else, just him trying to wrap his mind around that fact. 

It was fortunate then, that Izaya was not listening to him anyway; the crack from the building Shizuo had punched ran in a straight line down across the sidewalk and split it unevenly. Izaya was currently having a hard time maneuvering his wheelchair over top of it. 

Shizuo stepped forward without thinking. “Let me help.” He had both hands on the wheelchair’s handles before he felt the blade on his throat. 

Izaya’s head was craned back to gaze at him, the look in his eyes wild and fiery. The words came out slowly, each punctuated by a thick pause. 

“Don’t. Touch. Me.” 

Shizuo stared at him with wide, searching eyes. He felt relieved. Even if he was injured, even if he was less composed than normal, Izaya was still the one person who would not back away from him; he was never entirely broken, and never once considered recoiling in fear. 

Izaya gave him three seconds to let go of the wheelchair and then pushed the blade into Shizuo’s throat. Shizuo felt only the smallest sting as he began to bleed. He finally stepped back. The action made him angry, angry because he was bleeding, angry because it had gotten on the shirt Kasuka had given him. With a roar, he ripped a post box from its place on the concrete and threw it with all his strength. It exploded rather comically halfway down the opposite street, and white letters and manila envelopes rained down upon the sidewalk. 

Izaya had finally maneuvered his chair over the crack and watched the spectacle with interest. “Why did you do that?” 

Shizuo was busy blotting at the blood on his neck with his sleeve. “Well I can’t exactly hurt you when you’re uh...” he hesitated, “when you can’t defend yourself.” 

Izaya turned away from him and began to move forward once more. Shizuo saw only the corner of Izaya’s mouth as he spoke. It looked like he was smiling. 

“I don’t know why it matters to you now.” 

The words stunned Shizuo into silence, and he followed behind Izaya for another twenty minutes. Eventually, Izaya led them down a deserted alleyway and then stopped. He turned to look back at Shizuo and it appeared his humor had returned. 

“Although your impersonation of a lost puppy has been quite endearing, we are getting close to my hotel and I’m afraid I can’t let you continue following me.” He smirked and tilted his head to the side. “I’m sure you wouldn’t understand the peaceful slumber of someone whose whereabouts are unknown to the beast of Ikebukuro.” 

With that, he turned around and began to move again. 

Shizuo stayed where he was, watching Izaya roll away with mixed frustration and disappointment; they had discussed absolutely nothing important, and despite his desperate need for answers the evening before, he had not searched very hard for them today. Instead, he had walked mostly in silence and smashed his second wall in two days. He wanted to call out, to say something that would make the cryptic informant stop and turn back, but ultimately it was not words that came to him, it was an action. Shizuo whipped out his phone. 

It took a few moments, but then Izaya’s ringtone rose undeniably, echoing off the alley walls. Izaya stopped moving and inclined his head to the side, as if in concession that it was a good move. 

“Like I said,” Shizuo called after him, “lying.” 

Izaya waited there for a long moment, as if he was thinking. When he finally spoke, his voice was firm. 

“I’ll text you.” 

Before Shizuo could say anything else, Izaya rounded the corner and disappeared from sight. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! With the end of this chapter unfortunately updates become much less frequent OTL 
> 
> That said, I cant stop thinking about this fic and am personally very interested in it, and the response it has gotten has been much more kind and overwhelming than i ever expected so my motivation is high! 
> 
> Unrelated to anything: so far all chapter titles have been taken from the song The Boy Who Blocked His Own Shot by Brand New because I have always maintained that it is an incredibly shizaya song.
> 
> Next chapter: The boys have a more productive conversation and Izaya runs in to some old enemies.


	3. Salt in Your Wounds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ikebukuro is drenched in rain and Izaya meets some not-so-friendly faces in the park.

Walking back to his apartment after his frustrating, unproductive reunion with Izaya, Shizuo’s phone rang. He reached for it immediately, but it was only Shinra. 

“Hello?” 

Shinra’s voice crackled anxiously from the other end of the line. “I just got a call from Kadota, he said Izaya might be back in Ikebukuro.” 

Shizuo stopped walking. “He saw us?” 

“Well not exactly,” Shinra said, “he heard from someone that you were walking around the city with a handsome guy in a wheelchair. He said that from what his friend described, it sounded like Izaya. Celty said you texted her, is that why?” 

Shizuo sighed and leaned against the side of a building. He thought for a moment, and then decided to hold on to his secret for a little longer. He lit a cigarette. “Yeah, that’s why I texted her.” 

“And he’s in a wheelchair?” 

“Yeah.” 

Shinra hummed in surprise and Shizuo frowned. 

“What?” 

“Well—and I suppose I haven’t had access to his x-rays—but from what I’ve heard about your fight, and considering the amount of time he’s had to recover, he should be able to walk no problem, as long as he’s had regular physical therapy...” he stopped. “Hang on, Celty’s typing something.” There was a brief silence and then his voice rose dramatically. “My darling Celty is brilliant as always! She said he could be faking.” 

Shizuo frowned, recalling the careful way Izaya navigated his wheelchair through the city. He pictured the unrestrained hatred on the informant’s face when he asked what had happened to him. Shizuo sighed. “I don’t think so.” 

Shinra was silent for a long moment. “Do you know why he came back?” 

“I asked him, but he just lied a lot.” 

“You don’t think—I mean I suppose it would make sense—that he came back to get revenge on you?” 

“I don’t know,” Shizuo said honestly, “he seemed sort of indifferent to me.” Shinra chuckled loudly and Shizuo scowled. “ _What?_ ” 

“You sounded really disappointed just now.” 

Shizuo clenched his jaw and tossed his cigarette to the ground. “When you come back I’m going to beat your ass.” 

That only made Shinra laugh more. “I’ve only got another month left then. Celty, would you still love me if I was in a wheelchair?” The sounds at the other end of the line grew muffled, but Shizuo heard a variety of loving noises that made him gag. Eventually Shinra returned to the phone. “Let us know if anything else happens.” 

“Sure,” Shizuo said, “have fun on you vacation.” 

“Bye, Shizuo! Don’t wreck the city.” 

Shizuo put his phone back in his pocket and resumed his journey. Not long after, he received a text from Celty. 

[I hope you’re alright. I’m sorry about Shinra. I think he’s always had a dream for the two of you that extends beyond reality, he looked really excited when he got Kadota’s call. Are you okay?] 

Shizuo read the message feeling conflicted, and he worked on his response all the way back to his apartment. He typed several different messages but found some small problem with each of them. He struggled with the truth, whether he should reveal all of it, some small part, or none of it at all. Finally, he settled on something brief. 

[I’m okay. There’s more that I can’t tell you yet. I’ll keep you updated.] 

Celty’s text came in a moment later, short but comforting. [I’ll be here when you’re ready. Be safe.] 

Shizuo read her message and felt a little bit better. Walking into his apartment, he looked around. Not knowing what to do with the rest of his day off, he began to clean. His apartment was fairly neat already, but cleaning was a mindless task that he could do while deep in thought. Once every room had been scrubbed and dusted, he began to make himself dinner. This comparatively took very little time, as he only had to boil the water for instant ramen. While he ate on the couch in front of the TV, he texted Tom. 

[Hey. Thanks for letting me have the day off on such short notice, I can return to work tomorrow.] 

His phone buzzed a few minutes later. Tom’s response was wholly understanding and made him feel bad. 

[Are you sure? Tomorrow’s a Friday and you rarely ask for time off, you can have the long weekend if you want.] 

Shizuo sat back and thought about it for a moment. He honestly did not mind working, because he had very little to do otherwise. 

[I’ll be there.] 

This ultimately proved to be a good decision, because Izaya did not text him the next day. Even though he was distracted during work and checked his phone every few minutes, he knew it would have been far worse if he had simply stayed at home and paced around his apartment all day. Tom undoubtedly noticed his lack of concentration but said nothing, and invited him out for drinks at the end of the day. Shizuo almost said no, and by the end of the night wished that he had. 

They went to a bar Tom was familiar with, one that wasn’t exactly _grimy_ , but was hardly hip or youthful either. Still traumatized from his experience with beer two nights before, Shizuo drank water and sat at the bar while Tom flirted with a group of girls a few seats down. Several of them kept trying to catch Shizuo’s eye but he didn’t notice. He smoked more than he usually would have and wondered what Izaya was doing. He thought about going to look for him, but doubted that would be much appreciated. 

He walked home that night feeling very lonely, and slept badly. 

**** 

The night following his anticlimactic reunion with Shizuo, Izaya went back to his hotel and spent a great many hours on his balcony looking up at the stars. While most people felt relieved, comforted even, by their miniscule size in comparison to the planets, life, and eternity that stretched above them, Izaya just found it annoying; he did not like the thought that there was something out there more powerful and more knowing than himself. But still he stayed up very late that night, debating, dissenting, negotiating with the universe. It was mostly a one-way conversation, as it always had been, and he received no real sign or response, nothing concrete to answer his questions. He thought he saw lightening once, but truthfully, from his perspective on the top-floor of a hotel, the man-made lights and city skyline far outshone all the brilliance of the universe. This thought only confused him more. He went to bed that night feeling dissatisfied, and had trouble sleeping. 

He did not text Shizuo the next day, and he wasn’t exactly sure why. He knew he didn’t have very many days left in Ikebukuro, but he refrained from texting his rival under the guise of allowing himself to take it slow. He did go out on his second day though, venturing again into the city that had always held a fragile piece of his heart; he had always believed that no matter who you were, Ikebukuro promised adventure—not necessarily _enjoyment_ —but a thrill nevertheless. To his disappointment, the city he loved felt like it was only at half opacity that day, like a shell of its former self; if he was not being recognized, if he was not being stopped in the street by people who knew him, people who adored or hated him, Ikebukuro felt very much like any other city he had visited. 

Once more feeling forgotten, he ate at Russia Sushi for the second time, but Simon was not working. Dennis said he was out looking for a new fish supplier, and Izaya ate alone. He began his journey back to his hotel room at a depressingly early hour, and almost—though only almost—wished that Shizuo would appear from around a street corner and attack him; it would feel nice to have his presence, even if it had not been missed, be acknowledge by someone in the city that he had called home for so long. 

Izaya woke the next morning and decided that he could not put off contacting Shizuo any longer; although he had come here to sort things out, he had already wasted two of his ten days. After dressing and drinking his morning cup of coffee, he sent Shizuo a text. 

[Can you meet today?] 

Because it was a weekend he suspected that he knew the answer, but thought it polite to ask anyway. The response came after barely three minutes. 

[Yes. Where?] 

Izaya stared at his phone and thought for a moment. Out his balcony he could clearly see the excess of dark clouds that hung gloomily over the city. Whether one had a soulmate or not, the ability to see colors would not be of much use today. He typed a one-word answer. 

[Ikebukuro.] 

His phone buzzed a moment later with a message asking for a more definite location, but Izaya ignore it. A smirk crept across his lips. He took the elevator down to the hotel lobby and, pulling out his umbrella, rolled out into the rain. The weather had driven most people inside and the city felt uncharacteristically empty. He passed through the streets with no real direction or destination, turning on random corners and taking unplanned alleys. It would be near-impossible for any two normal people to find one another in a city the size of Ikebukuro, but that was what Izaya had intended; it was a test, of sorts. If the two of them supposedly had the universe on their side, Shizuo should have no problem finding him. 

He felt proud of the plan he had concocted, and rolled smugly though the streets. Once, he thought he heard a severe clap of thunder and considered seeking shelter inside a café, but the rain continued with no apparent increase or decrease, so he kept going. 

A few minutes later, he heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps approaching through the patter of rain. A pair of feet stopped directly in front of him. Izaya tilted his umbrella upward and looked Shizuo in the face. He dripped with rain, apparently having chosen to forgo an umbrella himself. He was frowning. 

“You directions weren’t very helpful.” 

“It didn’t take you long to find me though.” Izaya checked his phone for the time. “How did you know where I was?” 

“I _didn’t_ ,” Shizuo growled, “I was just about to cross the street to buy more cigarettes.” 

Izaya looked over his shoulder and saw a convenience store half a block down. He waved his hand. “Go on then, I’ll wait.” 

Shizuo didn’t move. “How do I know you won’t run off?” 

“Well first of all because I _can’t_ ,” Izaya said sarcastically, “and I asked you to meet, didn’t I?” 

Shizuo appraised him for a moment and then walked past him. Izaya watched as he turned down the street and disappeared inside the store. It had taken astonishingly little time for the two of them to find one another. He looked upward and frowned. Not at the rain, not even at the sky, at something greater and farther away. 

Shizuo returned a moment later and Izaya had a sudden thought. “Did you smash anything recently?” He asked. 

“A dumpster.” Shizuo frowned. “Why?” 

Izaya recalled the singular clap of thunder. “No reason.” 

Shizuo looked at him sideways. “Where do you want to go?” 

“The park.” 

Shizuo did not protest the outdoor location despite his lack of an umbrella, and when they arrived at the park a few minutes later, he sat down on a drenched bench like it was nothing. Izaya parked his wheelchair a few feet away from him. They didn’t speak. Izaya uncrossed his legs to keep them under the umbrella. Shizuo pulled out a cigarette and lit it. 

“Mind if I have one?” 

Shizuo eyed him suspiciously but held the pack out. “I didn’t know you smoked.” 

“I don’t really,” Izaya said, taking one, “only when the present company calls for it.” Shizuo tried to pass him the lighter and Izaya smirked. “Haven’t you heard, Shizu-chan? A pretty girl never lights her own cigarette.” He placed the cigarette between his lips and then leaned forward. 

Shizuo stared at him and seemed to understand that this was the reason Izaya had asked for one at all. Scowling, he raised his hand and lit it for him. “Don’t push it.” 

They sat in silence for another moment, both smoking, both thinking. The rain had lessened to a drizzle, and the sound surrounded them like an echo, like white noise, simultaneously soft and impossible to ignore, the soundtrack to their history. 

“I had a client in Kyoto who smoked this exact type,” Izaya said suddenly, “it was...a shock for me the first time he lit one.” 

Shizuo listened without looking at him. He took it as an invitation to question Izaya again, though of course it wasn’t. “Why did you really come back? I _know_ you got my voicemails so don’t lie.” 

“Well they weren’t exactly coherent,” Izaya began, thinking quickly. “They were mostly unintelligible mumbling, but still, you sounded urgent. I thought perhaps something had happened...happened to Shinra—or someone.” 

“Then why didn’t you just call him?” 

“I tried,” Izaya said, “there was no answer.” 

“No you didn’t.” Shizuo turned to glare at him. “I talked to Shinra and he would have told me if you called him.” 

“Ah….” Izaya changed course. “Well I was already coming back here for a job so the timing sort of worked ou-” 

“Do you ever get tired of lying all the time?” Shizuo’s voice rose and he snapped his cigarette in half. Rain clung to the ends of his eyelashes, but his gaze was unwavering. “I know my messages probably weren’t very clear, but I know what I said and I _know_ that you know.” He turned away. “So don’t act stupid.” 

Izaya stared back at him, surprised that the secret they both viciously guarded had been so suddenly and so plainly addressed. Shizuo glared out into the rain, slowly shaking his head. He made a face like man headed into war. 

“The day we met I began seeing colors.” He paused there, allowing Izaya to speak if he wanted, but Izaya only stared at him. Shizuo continued, “They’ve stayed my whole life, and then faded a little after you went away, but a few days ago they disappeared altogether. That was when I called you.” He glanced at Izaya. “You’re obviously not dead, and the colors are back now, so I want to know if you know anything about it.” 

Izaya had not been paying attention to the cigarette in his hand; it had burned all the way down to the filter, and he cursed as an excess of ash fell onto his lap. He threw it to the ground and looked back at Shizuo, shocked to the very core and unable to think of anything to say; he had never felt quite comfortable in the presence of unrestrained honesty. He looked away and gave the response that came most naturally to him. 

“I don’t know anything about that.” 

Shizuo’s shoulders dropped only a little. “So you don’t see-” 

“No.” Izaya had answered a little too quickly, but Shizuo nodded apparently in acceptance. Izaya raised an eyebrow. “You don’t believe anything I say, but you believe that?” 

“I don’t believe you,” Shizuo began, “but I wouldn’t believe you if you said you did seem them either.” 

That made Izaya chuckle and his lips, already smiling, curled into a smirk. “Does this mean you left me all those voicemails because you were worried about me? How sweet.” 

Shizuo didn’t react. He gazed evenly at Izaya as he lit another cigarette. “Didn’t you come back for the same reason?” 

Izaya stared back at him, his mouth falling into a tight-lipped grimace. Their conversation had taken a sudden turn, one he was not very much a fan of, and he cast an eye around the park, looking for an excuse to escape. The rain had deterred most people from venturing outside, but two men stood together fifty feet away. Izaya made eye contact with one of them. The man gazed back at him for a moment and then turned and whispered something to his friend. The second man nodded and then pulled out his cell phone. Izaya watched them suspiciously for a moment, trying to recall where he knew them from, but was distracted by Shizuo’s next question. 

“Are you afraid of me now?” 

Izaya was stunned for only a fraction of a second. He turned to look at Shizuo, his eyes glaring and his voice icy. “I have never in my whole life been afraid of you.” 

Shizuo frowned. “I mean I know that, but the other day you seemed sort of…odd.” 

Izaya turned away from him again. The two men across the park were still staring at him. He answered without looking at Shizuo. “Not afraid. More like…now I know that you can hurt me. Somehow beforehand I didn’t think it was possible.” He gestured to the wheelchair and forced humor into his voice. “Obviously that was an incorrect assumption.” He watched as two more men joined the others. All four stood facing him, and two of them had their fists clenched deep inside their pockets. 

Shizuo had not noticed them, he watched only Izaya. “Somehow I didn’t think I could either,” his voice was strained, “I always-” 

He cut off as Izaya sent a knife whizzing past the end of his nose. It flew through the air and buried into the hand of the first man, who cried out and dropped his gun on the sidewalk. The other three, no longer with a reason to hide their intention, charged towards him. Izaya threw his umbrella to the ground and wheeled his chair out into the open. 

“Sorry Shizu-chan, I’m afraid I have to cut this conversation short.” 

Shizuo stared dumbly back at him, but Izaya did not have time for his confusion; he only had seconds to think, seconds to plan. Four men, one disarmed. One remaining gun. He had only brought three knives with him today, and one of them was currently submerged in the flesh of his first assailant. 

Izaya sent his second knife hurtling towards the fastest man, who had broken away from the others and would reach him first. It spun a little high and was ducked easily. Izaya cursed and assumed a defensive position, his third and final knife raised. When the man was barely ten feet from him, Izaya heard the unmistakable tearing of metal. 

Shizuo’s cry shook the earth like thunder. “BASTARD DON’T YOU KNOW IT’S RUDE TO INTERRUPT PEOPLE?” 

He swung the bench in a wide arc and then let it go; it hit the first man in the chest and he was knocked backward, colliding with the man behind him in a tangle of limbs. 

His arm still raised to defend against an enemy that was now unconscious, Izaya gaped at Shizuo. 

Shizuo’s chest rose and fell heavily as he straightened up. He looked back at Izaya and grinned; a little crooked, a little stupid, and very gloating. Izaya watched as that smile sank in horror. 

“Izaya, look out!” 

Oh right. The fourth man, the second gun. Izaya turned in what felt like slow motion. He saw the silvery barrel pointed in his direction, just as an incredible force collided with the side of his wheelchair. It skidded several feet and then turned over, bouncing away as Izaya was thrown from his seat and rolled across the concrete. Somewhere nearby, he heard a gunshot. Izaya lay face-down on the ground, his body aching more than it had in a very long time. With a tremendous amount of effort, he raised his head. His hair was now slick with rain and ran into his eyes, but he saw the scene far more clearly than he wished to. 

Shizuo was on his knees, knelt like some sort of disturbing atonement. His left shoulder hung limp and bloody at his side. His expression was firm though, and he glared upward at the fourth man standing over him. The man’s legs shook with fear, but the gun in his hands did not waver as he pointed it at Shizuo’s head. 

An incredible roaring filled Izaya’s ears, louder than the surrounding rain, louder than any time he had heard Shizuo shout his name. It was deafening, it was motivating. He was injured, and his angle wasn’t very good, but he knew it didn’t matter, it _couldn’t_ matter. The third knife left his fingers and flew through the air. Izaya watched it spin, watched it bury deep into the man’s left thigh. He screamed and fell to the ground, shrieking and writhing until Shizuo hit him across the face, and then he lay still. 

Shizuo’s gaze fixed on Izaya, his eyes wide with shock and gratitude. Izaya could not bring himself to look into them and put his head back down on the concrete. He breathed a long sigh of relief. He heard Shizuo footsteps approaching, splashing heavily through the puddles. 

“Are you-” 

“Get the chair.” 

Shizuo fell silent. He waited a moment, and then did as he was told. He had to flip the chair back onto its wheels and then rolled it over beside Izaya. He held out his good arm, but Izaya ignored it and began to pull himself up unassisted. He was weak, and his hands slipped on the armrests and the chair rolled away. 

“Izaya.” Shizuo's voice rose sternly. “ _Now_ you refuse my help?” 

Still on his hands and knees, Izaya scowled at the pavement. He reached out and took hold of Shizuo’s outstretched arm, begrudgingly accepting the hand offered to him. He settled back into his chair without looking at Shizuo. He took the joystick in his hand and pushed it forward, but nothing happened. 

“Great, you broke it.” 

Shizuo made a face, still clutching his injured shoulder. “Hey! I saved your life.” He fell silent as if he had only just realized it, and then repeated the sentence with a teasing smile across his lips. “ _I saved your life_.” 

Izaya reached automatically for a knife before remembering he had none. He settled for a razor-sharp glare. “Tell anyone and you’re dead.” 

“Izaya,” Shizuo smirked and leaned towards him, “I am going to tell literally every person I know.” 

Izaya’s already sour expression sank even further and he looked away. “I saved your life too, you don’t see me bragging about it.” 

“What? That at the end?” Shizuo shook his head. “I would have survived.” 

“A bullet between the eyes? Even your skull isn’t that thick.” 

Shizuo frowned at him for a moment and then pushed the hair out of his eyes. “Are you okay? I mean are your legs...worse now?” 

“Well I can’t run or climb stairs or walk more than ten steps,” Izaya’s voice dripped with sarcasm, “so no they’re not worse. I’ll just be sore for a few days.” He also had a few scrapes on his hands and face, but he knew it was nothing compared to the harm that could have befallen him. 

Shizuo finally removed his hand from his shoulder and looked around. Izaya saw the wound properly for the first time; a tiny hole torn through the fabric of his shirt, the bloody flesh beneath, unmistakably a gunshot. While Shizuo may feel comfortable telling everyone the details of this encounter, Izaya was confident that he would not be telling anyone that he had saved the life of the beast of Ikebukuro. Lying on the pavement, watching Shizuo defiantly stare death in the face, Izaya had felt a terror that he would never, under any circumstance, repeat to anyone. He cleared his throat. 

“How’s the shoulder?” 

“Fine I guess,” Shizuo shrugged, “barely even hurts.” 

Izaya leaned back in his wheelchair and scoffed. “I never really stood a chance against you, did I?” Shizuo fell silent upon hearing these words, but Izaya only paused to ponder them for a moment before continuing, as if he had already accepted that fact. “Still, you should probably go to a hospital to get the bullet removed.” 

Shizuo made a face. “I don’t like hospitals.” 

“Are you five?” 

Shizuo glared at him and Izaya saw a small movement over his shoulder. The two men Shizuo had hit with the bench were beginning to stir. Izaya nodded towards them. 

“Well, either way we should get out of here.” He reached habitually for his joystick before he remembered it was broken. Dropping his hands down to the wheels, he began to push them manually. It was surprisingly tiring, and his arms, already weary from his tumble across the concrete, began to shake after just a few feet. 

“Here, let me.” Shizuo stepped forward and began to push the wheelchair, gripping only one of the handles while his injured arm hung at his side. 

“What? _No_.” Izaya shooed at him. “Go flee in a different direction than me.” 

Shizuo ignored this request and while Izaya had no knives to threaten him, he beat repeatedly at the hand touching the wheelchair. Shizuo did not let go and turned them down a different street. 

“Hey Izaya,” he said suddenly, “who were those guys?” 

Izaya sat resignedly back in his wheelchair with his arms crossed. “I hate to break it to you Shizu-chan, but I wasn’t exactly faithful to you in the old days. I had _a lot_ of enemies, and I’m sure many of them are not content with the damaged you did to me. Now that I’m back and, well, like _this_ , I’m sure many of them think it’s a good opportunity to try and kill me.” 

Izaya felt the wheelchair slow as Shizuo’s steps faltered. 

“So you’re basically a sitting target?” 

“I can take care of myself.” Izaya said the words firmly, although the events of the last half hour seemed to prove otherwise. Even so, he believed them, even if Shizuo did not. Izaya looked to the side just in time to see them passing by a small convenience store. “Hey, let’s go in here.” 

**** 

An hour later, Izaya called Shinra from his hotel room. He picked up after the first ring. 

“Izaya-” he almost sounded relieved, “-how are you? I heard you were b-” 

“I need your help.” Izaya cut him off. “Shizuo’s been shot.” 

Silence immediately followed these words, and then Shinra let out a long, exasperated sigh. “Oh _come on_ , Izaya! You know bullets won’t keep him down, what were you thinking?” 

"What?" Izaya frowned. “No, not by _me_.” 

Shinra clicked his tongue in disbelief. 

“Really! It was some thugs in the park.” 

Shinra’s voice grew muffled. “Okay hang on Celty is typing something…is he okay?” 

“Who _him?_ ” Izaya scoffed. “Of course he’s fine, he’s standing on my balcony smoking a cigarette as we speak. He’s apparently a child though because he refuses to go to the hospital.” 

There was a small sound as the sliding door opened and Shizuo stepped back into the hotel room. Izaya looked quickly away from him. 

“Listen Shinra, I bought some stuff at a convenience store and I think it’s all we’ll need to remove the bullet, I just need you to tell me what to do.” 

Shinra’s voice rose with surprise. “Well sure it shouldn’t be too hard, but I still don’t really understand, how did this happened? Who were the men that shot him?” 

Izaya tried to answer him quietly. “It-It’s a long story. It doesn’t matter.” 

The words still caught Shizuo attention and he walked over. Bending low beside the phone, he started to shout. “HE JUST DOESNT WANT TO TELL YOU I TOOK A BULLET FOR HIM!” 

“Shut up!” Feeling no remorse, Izaya slapped at Shizuo’s injured shoulder and he recoiled. 

“Really?” Shinra’s voice crackled in his ear. “Pass me to Shizuo.” 

“No.” 

“Celty says I can’t help you until we talk to Shizuo.” 

Izaya frowned for a moment and then held out the phone. 

Shizuo took it. “Hello?” There was a brief silence. “No.” Another paused and then Shizuo laughed. “No really, he didn’t shoot me.” Shizuo smiled mockingly at him from across the room and Izaya gave him the finger. “No I’m not tied down right now. Nope, not drugged either.” There was long silence and then Shizuo pulled the phone from his ear and held it out. Izaya did not understand what was happening until he heard the click of a shutter. Shizuo put the phone back up to his ear. “Did you get that? See he’s not doing anything, just sulking.” 

Izaya started taking pillows off the bed and launching them at his head, but Shizuo dodged them all easily. Eventually he put the phone down and put Shinra on speakerphone. Though still not entirely filled in, the doctor finally seemed ready to help them. 

“Where is the bullet?” 

“My shoulder,” Shizuo answered. 

“Okay, Izaya, you’ll need a space to work.” 

Izaya glanced around and then jerked his head towards the table that sat in the room’s tiny kitchen. Shizuo followed him and took a seat. It took Izaya a moment to stand from his wheelchair and take his own chair at the table. Shizuo watched him patiently from the corner of his eye. 

Shinra’s voice took on a new, authoritative tone. “Okay, tell me everything that you have.” 

“We-” Izaya fell silent. The plastic bag full of medical supplies they had bought still sat on the bed. He let out a long, tired sigh and started to stand up again, but Shizuo held out a hand to stop him. 

“It’s okay, I’ll get it…you stay here.” 

Izaya watched him cross the room and return moments later. Shinra’s voice rose mockingly from the phone. “Izaya, what do you say?” 

“Shut the fuck up Shinra.” He glared at the table with his jaw clenched. He spoke to Shizuo without looking at him. “Thanks.” 

Though his response would seem rude to an average person, Shizuo did the thing Izaya would appreciate most in that moment: he said nothing in return and instead began to list off the supplies they had bought. 

“We’ve got gloves, tweezers, antiseptic, and a lot of gauze and other bandages.” 

Shinra fell briefly silent. “It’s not ideal but it sounds like it will be enough. Where is the bullet exactly? I know you said his shoulder, but did it hit the bone? What’s the entry angle like?” 

Izaya squinted. “I don’t think it hit the bone but it’s kind of hard to tell.” 

“What? Why?” Shinra sighed in simultaneous annoyance and disbelief. “Shizuo, take off your shirt.” 

Shizuo turned red and did it quickly. Izaya didn’t look at him and instead began to put on the white latex gloves. The wound was difficult for Shizuo to see from his angle, so Izaya scooted towards him and described it to Shinra as best he could. 

“It’s kind of on the underside,” he began, “by his armpit. It definitely didn’t hit the bone but I think it may be close to an artery.” 

Shinra hummed like he was thinking. “You should avoid it if you can, although it definitely wouldn’t kill him if it was damaged.” 

“Okay,” Izaya picked up the tweezers. “So what do I do exactly?” 

“Honestly it’s not that complicated, just try and pull the bullet out as carefully as possible.” 

“That’s it?” Izaya stared down at the phone in disbelief. “I can’t even see the bullet.” 

“Blot at it first to make the wound more apparent, it’ll probably bleed a lot so hold some gauze up to it with your other hand. If it’s in there deep you won’t be able to see it at all, you’ll just have to feel around for it. The bullet will be pretty slippery, but it should come out fairly easily.” 

Izaya pressed the roll of gauze to Shizuo’s arm and raised the tweezers. He brought his face close to the wound to see it better, and then stuck the tweezers inside the rift in Shizuo’s skin. This first attempt was very brief. 

“Ow!” Shizuo flinched severely and glared at him. “You did that on purpose.” 

Izaya frowned. “I didn’t.” 

“I bet he did.” Shinra’s voice crackled up from the table. 

Izaya jammed the tweezers back inside the wound, this time taking hold of the bullet and twisting it quickly. 

“OW! FUCK, FLEA!” Shizuo bumped his forehead against Izaya’s and barred his teeth. 

Izaya glared right back at him. “ _That’s_ what it feels like when I’m doing it on purpose.” 

They stayed like that for a moment, forehead-to-forehead, one wrong move from a serious altercation, and then Shinra’s laughter rose loudly through the telephone. 

“I almost wish I was there, ah this makes me feel so nostalgic.” 

Shizuo was the first one to pull back. He looked away from Izaya. “Don’t do that again.” 

It was quiet work after that, and while Shizuo frequently clenched his jaw, he did not complain, and Izaya followed Shinra’s instructions to the best of his ability. Shinra was right; it had been fairly simple, and he carefully plucked out the bullet on his fifth attempt. 

“Okay, now what?” 

Shinra tried to guide him through the act of wrapping the wound, but somehow that proved much more difficult than removing the bullet had been, and at the end Shizuo’s bandage was awkward and lumpy, and far larger than it needed to be. 

“If Shizuo was normal I’d have you stitch him up,” Shinra said, “but I really don’t think it’s necessary. If it’s anything like last time he’ll be good as new in a few days.” 

“Well I certainly can’t wait for _that_.” Izaya said sarcastically. 

Shizuo began to button up his shirt. “Thanks, Shinra.” 

“It’s what I’m good for,” He sounded amused, “you should thank your nurse.” They both stiffened immediately, but Shinra only laughed loudly and spoke again. “Izaya, can I talk to you for a moment?” 

Izaya removed his bloody gloves and took Shinra off speaker phone. 

“Yes?” 

“Well on the subject of things I’m good for,” Shinra spoke slowly, like he was hesitating. “Celty and I are coming back next month…if you want, I can take a look at your legs myself. I’m sure-” 

Izaya cut him off. “I’ll be gone by then.” He put the phone down and was about to hang up when something stopped him. He put the phone back up to his ear. “Thanks for your help, Shinra.” 

“Sure.” 

Izaya hung up. He stared down at the table. The bullet now sat on a piece of gauze, glinting copper in the light. He looked up at Shizuo. 

“Does Shinra know?” 

Shizuo was almost done buttoning up his shirt, but paused at the top button. “No. I haven’t told anyone.” 

Izaya appraised him, trying to see if he was lying, but it didn’t look like he was. He nodded slowly. 

In one swift movement, Shizuo sat back down at the table beside Izaya. He began to sift through the bag of medical supplies they had bought. 

“What are you doing?” 

Shizuo grinned wickedly at him. “You’re injured too right? It’s my turn.” 

Izaya tried to stand up, but Shizuo was blocking the way to his wheelchair. He leaned as far away as he could. “A few scrapes is hardly comparable to a gunshot wound, and having you stick band-aids on me is much more dehumanizing than me digging a bullet out of your arm.” 

Shizuo ignored him and began pulling on his own pair of sterile gloves. “Let me do it, the cut on your face is bad.” 

“ _Why?_ How do I know you won’t break my jaw?” 

Shizuo looked offended. “I wouldn’t do that.” 

“I know you wouldn’t do it on _purpose_ Shizu-chan, I’d be a lot less fun for you to look at.” 

Shizuo frowned at him and then raised his hands to Izaya face, apparently tired of this debate. 

Izaya glared daggers at him the whole time, but did nothing outwardly to prevent Shizuo’s hand. He pinched Izaya’s chin between his fingers and tilted his head upward, spreading a thin layer or antiseptic onto the cut. He peeled open a band-aid and pressed it very gently across Izaya’s cheekbone. 

“See? You survived.” Shizuo leaned back to admire his handiwork. He snickered. “You look like a pouty child.” 

“Okay enough!” Izaya snatched the box of band-aids off the table and threw it across the room. He turned back to Shizuo, his voice sharp with annoyance. “You can go now.” 

Shizuo looked surprised. “Oh…yeah, of course.” 

He stood up and glanced around, checking if he had forgotten anything, though he couldn’t imagine what. Izaya took the opportunity to transfer back into his wheelchair. He led Shizuo to the door. Standing out in the hallway, Shizuo turned back to look at him. 

“What are you going to do now?” 

“Well I have to go back to Kyoto at some point, but I suppose I’ll stay a few more days.” He said it calmly, knowing perfectly well that he had only a set number of days in Ikebukuro. 

Shizuo gave him a funny look. “I meant right now.” 

“Oh...” Izaya stopped to think. His skin and clothes were wet with rain and caked in dirt. “Probably take a shower. Why?” 

Shizuo looked nervous. He shuffled his feet. “I was wondering if we could hang out some time?” 

Izaya stared blankly at him for a full ten seconds. He glanced around, not entirely certain that he had heard correctly. Eventually he leaned back in his wheelchair, his expression disbelieving. “You understand that I have to make fun of you now, right? _Hang out_ -?” 

“I’m serious, I think it could be-” Shizuo stopped. He had been about to say _fun_ but knew that wasn’t exactly right. “I think it could be productive.” 

Izaya watched him for several moments, like he was trying to decide if he should laugh at Shizuo again or take him seriously. Eventually, Izaya turned away from him. “I’m tired.” 

Shizuo felt himself deflate. “Oh okay.” He started to leave. 

“But maybe tonight.” 

Shizuo froze where he stood and turned around slowly. Izaya would not look at him. He felt his lips moving, but wasn’t exactly sure how he got the words out. “How about eight?” 

“Fine.” Izaya shut the door before he finished speaking, but Shizuo had heard his answer. He stood motionless out in the hallway. He mostly felt dumbfounded, but also—though he did not know why—excited. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!!
> 
> I did not at all expect to be back this soon, but I've decided to put my main fic on hold for the moment because uhh....it's pissing me off lmao. But that does mean more time for this fic! And I really do enjoy writing it so much <3
> 
> Canonical question if anyone has the answer: I feel like i read somewhere that Shinra doesn't call Izaya by his first name but i couldn't really remember so if anyone knows I will happily change it! Also I couldn't remember what they all call Kadota OTL
> 
> Next Chapter: They 'hang out'??? And neither of them are very good at it tbh


	4. Night Changes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shizuo and Izaya "hang out" on a chilly Ikebukuro night. Unsurprisingly, Shizuo breaks something.

By the time Shizuo returned to his own apartment, the poorly-dressed bandage Izaya had given him had almost completely unraveled, and he decided to take a shower before attempting to wrap the wound himself. This proved to be a poor decision, as he could not get the water hot enough, no matter how much he meddled with the nobs. It only reminded him of the rain outside, so he stepped back out the shower after barely three minutes. He dried off, and then examined his injury in the bathroom mirror. Already a thin layer of scabbing had covered the wound, and he decided to simply stick a band-aid over it. 

As he was dressing, his phone chimed with a text from Celty. 

[Hey, are you alright? Shinra says he spoke with you, but I’m still having a hard time believing him. Are you sure you’re alright?” 

Shizuo pondered how much to tell her, and brewed a pot of tea as he thought through his response. It ended up being very short. 

[Yes everything is fine. I am fine.] He took a deep breath, and then revealed a little more. [We are hanging out tonight.] 

He wasn’t exactly eager to read her response, and took his cup of tea to the couch. His phone buzzed a moment later, but he waited a few minutes without looking at it. Celty’s reply made him freeze with the cup halfway to his lips. 

[Hanging out? What are you going to do?] 

Shizuo stared dumbly down at the message because truthfully he had not that far ahead; getting Izaya to agree to spend time with him was the hard part, he had not considered the equally difficult task of finding something for them to do. He hung out with Tom sometimes, at cheap restaurants and bars, but he didn’t think Izaya would like either of those suggestions. Whenever he hung out with Celty they just stood around and talked with one another, and occasionally took a walk through the park, but Izaya _couldn’t_ walk and Shizuo didn’t like talking to him very much. 

Pausing his conversation with Celty, Shizuo typed a message to Izaya. Though short, it was incredibly difficult to compose. 

[Was there anywhere in particular that you wanted to go tonight?] 

When Izaya did not reply immediately, Shizuo stood up and began to pace around the room. Several questions presented themselves in quick succession; where should they go? What should he wear? Should he meet Izaya out somewhere, or meet him at his hotel first? He started to reply to Celty, but a message from Izaya finally came in. 

[You invited _me_ out Shizu-chan, the details are your responsibility. If you’d like relieved of the burden I can easily make other plans tonight.] 

Shizuo had the extreme urge to type back a response canceling their plans, but he restrained himself. He took a full five minutes to calm himself down, and then typed his response quickly, answering at least one of his own questions. 

[I’ll think of something, just be ready at eight. I’ll meet you at the hotel.] 

Izaya’s reply came in less than a minute later. 

[I’d rather not have you visit my residence twice in one day. We’ll meet somewhere else.] 

Shizuo sat back down on the couch, frowning. [What if you get attacked again? You probably shouldn’t go out by yourself.] 

He knew that wouldn’t sit well with Izaya, and when the informant replied, it was roughly what Shizuo had expected. 

[I don’t need an escort.] 

Shizuo typed _Yes you do_ , and then erased it. [Just be ready at 8.] 

After pressing send, Shizuo let out a long sigh and closed his eyes, leaning back against the couch. He waited for Izaya’s response, but when his phone buzzed it was only Celty. 

[If you want I can ask Shinra what he likes? I’m sure they used to hang out in high school.] 

Shizuo felt suddenly very tired, and his response was much angrier than he had intended. 

[I already know what he likes, scheming and manipulating people.] 

Celty’s next question annoyed him, even though it was warranted. 

[Then why do you want to spend time with him at all?} 

[Because I’ve never tried to before]. He waited a moment. [I’d really appreciate it if you asked Shinra]. 

He did not receive any messages from anyone for a solid fifteen minutes, and had almost fallen asleep when Celty’s next text arrived. 

[Shinra suggests an arcade]. 

Shizuo checked the time, discovering that he still had four hours before he was expected at Izaya’s door. He picked up his tea, only to find that it had gone cold. 

**** 

The elevator doors chimed open thirty minutes before eight o’clock. Shizuo had not exactly meant to arrive early, but he was worried that Izaya would somehow find out their destination and leave the apartment on his own. Deciding that it would be stupid to wait out in the hallway for thirty minutes, he knocked on Izaya’s door. He knew it was rude to arrive early, but at least he wasn’t late. He waited a few moments and then knocked again. Behind him, Shizuo heard the elevator ding as the doors slid open. 

“You’re early.” 

The flatness of that voice was unmistakable. Shizuo turned around as Izaya maneuvered his wheelchair out of the elevator. Izaya had a bag of shopping in his lap, and did not look happy to see him. He watched Izaya’s eyebrows raise. 

“You look nice.” 

Shizuo stared dumbly back at him. Eventually he shrugged, self-consciously running a hand over his pale blue button-up. “Well the past two times I’ve seen you my bartender uniforms have been ruined. I figured it was safer not to wear one.” 

Izaya wheeled towards him, tilting his head to the side. “How many shirts do you own that aren’t a uniform or pajamas?” 

Shizuo paused to think. “Four.” 

That seemed to amuse Izaya greatly. He gestured to the bag in his lap. “That’s less than an hour’s worth of shopping.” 

“You bought clothes?” Shizuo stared at him. “For this?” 

Izaya’s lips curled downward. “Don’t flatter yourself. I did not appreciate your attempt to impose house arrest, and I didn’t pack enough clothes for my time thusfar, so I went out to buy more. Give me a minute to change.” He unlocked his door and Shizuo started to follow him, but Izaya shut the door in his face. 

Izaya took a very long time, and Shizuo paced up and down the hallway, trying his best to be patient. He was tempted to knock on the door again, but he knew Izaya was already irritated with him for coming early, so he refrained from doing so. After half an hour, his phone buzzed with a message. 

[Knock.] 

Shizuo was confused at first, but then understood it as a command. He did as he was told without thinking. A brief moment passed, and then the door pulled open. 

“Ah, Shizu-chan, you’re right on time.” 

Izaya looked, in a word, different. He certainly looked different than he had earlier that day when he was wet from rain and covered in dirt, but he also looked different from usual. He wore dark jeans and a red sweater that looked very soft and very expensive. He smelled faintly of cologne, and even though Shizuo wasn’t very good at distinguishing between scents, he thought it smelled nice. Finally, and perhaps most surprising, Izaya had done something with his hair. It looked sharp, shiny and slicked back. The band-aid Shizuo had pressed to his cheek was still there, but he didn’t let it distract him, at least, not too much. 

“You certainly took your time.” He growled. “You look...different.” 

“Well I had to look better than you,” Izaya said, “and we agreed to meet at eight. I saw no reason to open the door before then.” He wheeled out into the hall. “So, where are we going?” 

Shizuo hesitated, still not confident in the activity he had decided on. “An arcade.” 

Izaya said nothing, but that only further provoked Shizuo’s anxiety. 

“Don’t you have some asshole comment?” 

Izaya shrugged. “I like arcades.” 

Shizuo sent a silent _thank you_ to Shinra as the elevator doors chimed open and they moved inside. Izaya cleared his throat. 

“Although I’ll admit it’s a bit juvenile, it’s not like we’re still in high school.” 

Shizuo gritted his teeth and pushed the button for the lobby so hard he thought he broke it. 

When they reached the lobby he let Izaya exit the elevator first. Izaya was doing a better job pushing the wheelchair by himself than he had done earlier that day, and he looked stronger and more rested, so Shizuo did not offer to push it for him. Still, as they set out for 60 Story Street he tried to walk slowly so that Izaya could keep up. 

They talked very little, but Shizuo still thought it was nice. He stayed alert as they moved through the city, looking for anyone who might wish Izaya harm. Girls kept looking at him, but Shizuo assumed that was because Izaya was handsome. In general, he was surprised by how little attention people paid to the informant. To his even greater surprise, Shizuo noticed that he also was attracting fewer gazes than usual, perhaps because he was not wearing his bartender uniform. Walking down the street with Izaya, he felt like they were just two normal people, on their way to a normal place. Without their usual disguises, costumes and masks, they could pretend that they were strangers or acquaintances, perhaps not friends, but they could at least pretend that they hadn’t spent years hating each other. He was grateful that the city could let them do that, could let them _be_ that. 

These thoughts kept him distracted for most of their journey, and he accidentally led them one block past the arcade. Izaya raised his eyebrows when Shizuo said that they needed to turn around, but he said nothing, 

Several stories tall, the arcade was crowded and very loud. Light shone from a hundred different games and machines, flashing in bright colors that hurt Shizuo’s eyes. He thought that if Izaya truly could not see color as he claimed, in this case he was lucky. He also immediately realized that they had a problem; while most people did their best to move out of Izaya’s way, the capacity made it difficult for him to maneuver his wheelchair through the crowd. Casting a quick glance around, Shizuo lead them to the least occupied corner of the arcade. When they reached it Izaya gave him a bemused look, as if to say, _Now what?_

“Is there anything you want to play?” Shizuo asked. 

Izaya didn’t speak, only shrugged again. Shizuo frowned at him and turned to the machine closest to them, a crane game full of stuffed animals. 

“I want to play this.” 

He didn’t really, but he thought that they had to start somewhere. He only wished that the nearest game had not been one so clearly meant for children. Izaya made a face like he was refraining from saying something judgmental. Shizuo appreciated it, since he had only led them to this unpopular corner for Izaya’s benefit anyway. He eyed the contents of the game, his gaze falling across a series of rabbits, bears and dogs. He spotted a black and white cow in the corner, and dropped a coin into the machine. 

He tried a few times, but could never get the crane in exactly the right position. He also felt unnerved with Izaya watching him, and after his sixth failure he was beginning to feel frustrated. He took a deep breath and stepped back. 

Izaya rested his face in his hand like he was bored. “Giving up?” 

“You try it.” 

Izaya looked surprised. “Why? I don’t want to.” 

“If I try anymore I’ll get mad and smash it.” 

“So? Then you’d have your pick of them.” 

Shizuo frowned at him. “And then they’d kick us out before you even got to play anything.” 

Izaya scrutinized him for a moment, his eyes wide like he was searching for something, and then he wheeled in front of the game. “You’re more patient than you used to be.” 

Izaya said it quietly, without looking at him. Shizuo wanted to say that he was trying very hard, but was cut off as Izaya dropped a coin into the machine and took hold of the controller. 

“In any case, I didn’t know you liked cows so much.” 

Shizuo looked at him like he was stupid. “Where do you think milk comes from?” 

The game was starting up and Izaya didn’t look at him, but he smiled. Shizuo could see it in the mirror at the back of the claw machine; it wasn’t sarcastic or cruel, it wasn’t like usual. It pulled gently across his lips, causing two little wrinkles up by his eyes. It was gone in seconds, replaced with a look of determination as he moved the crane into position. Watching it drop, Shizuo realized that Izaya had done an even worse job than he had. 

Izaya refused to look at him and shoved several more coins into to the machine. Shizuo leaned back and watched him. With each failure Izaya seemed to grow more agitated, pressing his lips together and furrowing his brow. It was very amusing, watching Izaya try and fail repeatedly at a child’s crane game. It was very human. The thought surprised Shizuo, but he knew at once that it was true. Around his eighth try, the corners of Izaya’s lips tipped upward as the claws closed firmly around the cow, lifting it into the air. 

“I got it!” 

Izaya immediately looked embarrassed by how enthusiastically he had said it, and hid his face by ducking down to retrieve the cow from the chute. 

“Hey good job,” Shizuo tried to match his excitement, “I was beginning to think it was impossible.” He reached for the cow, but Izaya leaned back and pulled it just out of his reach. He looked very serious. 

“This one is mine, get your own.” 

Shizuo stood dumbfounded. He spoke slowly. “Izaya, I think we both know I am more than capable of taking that cow from you by force.” 

In the time it took Shizuo to blink, Izaya had a knife out and pressed against the throat of the cow. 

“Careful Shizu-chan, you seem to have stumbled into a hostage situation. I wonder if you’re delicate enough to handle it?” 

They stared at each other. It was stupid, Shizuo knew that, but he almost started sweating. Izaya suddenly turned, throwing the cow over his shoulder. Shizuo caught it. He barely heard Izaya’s voice as he wheeled away. 

“I don’t care about this, let’s go play something else.” 

Over the course of two hours, Shizuo learned that Izaya was alarmingly good at idol rhythm games and surprisingly bad at shooting games. On the third floor, they discovered a room full of non-machine games like pool and darts. They tried to play ping-pong, but Shizuo kept hitting the ball too hard and sending it across the room. Izaya disappeared at one point and returned twenty minutes later, keeping one arm bent behind his back. 

“I won something for you,” he said, smiling wickedly. He pulled the hand out from behind his back and unfurled a white, I Heart Tokyo t-shirt. He presented it to Shizuo with a flourish. “Now you have five shirts.” 

Shizuo made a face. “I don’t want that ugly thing.” But he took it from Izaya and slung it over his shoulder. “Are you hungry? I think there’s a food court on the top floor.” 

They decided to split up; Izaya went to get them drinks while Shizuo waited in line for food—it had taken several minutes to get Izaya to agree to any of the fast food restaurants present. They met at a small table a few minutes later, and both tore eagerly into plastic bowls of gyudon, the one food they had agreed upon. It was spicier than either of them had expected, and Shizuo reached immediately for the cup Izaya had brought back for him. The drink was halfway to his lips when the smell reached his nostrils. Shizuo gagged and slammed the cup of beer back down on the table. It sloshed over the sides and spilled onto the table. 

“You’re an asshole.” 

Izaya’s eyes darkened. “ _What?_ It’s beer, very expensive beer, by the way. People drink it all the time.” 

Shizuo was not yet ready to accept that Izaya wasn’t tricking him somehow, his painful night of eleven beers still haunted him. “You knew it would make me sick.” 

From the look on Izaya’s face, it was clear that he had not known. The informant said nothing, only glared at him, his expression sinking into the darkest look that he had given Shizuo all evening. Izaya lifted his own cup to his lips and swallowed. 

Shizuo still felt angry, but it was anger with no real outlet or source. To be honest, he felt a little irritated with himself for getting angry when Izaya had simply tried to be nice to him. With good reason, he didn’t really expect Izaya to ever do nice things, but perhaps that was part of their problem. He didn’t look Izaya in the eye. “Sorry.” 

Izaya kept glaring at him, and Shizuo tried his best to move on. “Is there anything else you want to play after we finish eating? I can try and win you your own stuffed cow if you want?” 

Izaya’s voice was icy. “Why would I want something stupid like that? I’m a grown man.” 

Shizuo felt himself deflate. They had been having a relatively fun evening before his outburst, but he wasn’t exactly surprised that his weak apology hadn’t been enough to appease Izaya. He had an idea. “Wait here.” He stood up and started to walk away. He stopped and then doubled back. “Seriously,” he said, “don’t leave.” 

Izaya’s glare did not waver, and Shizuo tried to return quickly as he could. Even so, it took him about fifteen minutes to ride the elevator down to the gaming floor, win the necessary prizes, and then ride the elevator back up to the food court. 

Izaya was still sitting at the table, picking at his gyudon. Shizuo was both relieved and a little surprised that he had not left. As he approached the table, he saw that a third drink now sat among the first two. Peering over the side, Shizuo saw that it was thick and white, unmistakably milk. 

“Did you get this for me?” He looked up at Izaya, but the informant had crossed his arms and was looking pointedly away from him. “Thank you.” He raised the cup to his lips and realized that the word “Dick” was written along the side in a thick marker, clearly in the spot where a name was supposed to go. He had to laugh, he deserved it. He set the cup back down and moved around to the other side of the table. 

“Here, hold out your hands.” 

Izaya looked at him suspiciously but did as he was told. Reaching into his pockets, Shizuo dropped several handfuls of small plastic weapons into Izaya’s fingers. There were shrunken, battle axes, long scythes, and Izaya’s favorite, knives. 

“I know the real deal can be expensive to keep replacing, so I thought you could throw these at me when I piss you off only a little.” Shizuo moved back to his side of the table and sat down. “Okay, let me have it.” 

Izaya raised an eyebrow and picked up a small hammer, moving it around in his fingers. “It’s no fun when you’re expecting it.” 

Shizuo rolled his eyes. “Then let’s go play something else. Are you done eating?” 

Izaya nodded, and Shizuo watched in satisfaction as he placed all the little weapons into his pocket. 

Back down on the gaming floor, Shizuo realized with dismay that they had played everything at least once. At a loss for what to do, he let Izaya lead the way. 

“Let’s play a racing game.” 

Shizuo agreed with some hesitancy; he had intentionally avoided the racing games all evening because he wasn’t sure how well Izaya would manage repeatedly pushing the pedals with his injured legs. Izaya however, had foreseen this issue, and led them to a row of fake motorcycles. 

While it was the practical choice, it was also the amusing choice; although their motorcycles were red and blue, not black, the game still reminded them both of Celty. It took Izaya a moment to stand and lift himself up onto the motorcycle, and he seemed a little out of breath by the time he was finished, but Shizuo said nothing and took care not to stare at him. 

When Izaya was properly seated with his hands on the handlebars, Shizuo pulled out his phone. 

“Hey,” he said, “look at me.” 

Izaya did, and before his confused expression could sink into a glare, Shizuo snapped a picture of him looking—in Shizuo’s opinion—fairly at home on a motorcycle. Izaya tried to snatch the phone out of his hands, but Shizuo leaned away and quickly sent the picture to Celty and Shinra. Izaya reached into his pocket and threw a handful of little plastic weapons at him, but Shizuo only laughed. 

“Now take one of me.” 

He passed his phone to Izaya, and was worried for a moment that Izaya would instead launch his phone across the room or smash it—as he had a history of doing—but eventually he leaned back and did as he was told. He didn’t give the phone back immediately after taking the picture and Shizuo tried to take it from him, but Izaya let him have it back a brief moment later. 

“I sent that one to them too.” Izaya said it without looking at him. 

Suspicious, Shizuo put the phone in his pocket, fully expecting to find the picture on some internet forum the next day. Izaya put two coins into the machine and selected two-player mode. The game prompted them to select a route—they decided on a busy cityscape—and then had them choose a character to play as. Shizuo clicked through them without much thought, and selected a man who was, in his opinion, the most normal looking of the assorted characters. He was surprised then, when Izaya selected a woman wearing a bright pink bikini top and cut-off shorts. Shizuo made a face, and Izaya looked at him sideways. 

“ _What?_ ” 

Shizuo shrugged. “Nothing, I never would have thought you were the type of person to pick a character just because you think they’re hot.” 

Izaya tilted his head to the side. “I picked her because like her bike, it has the best stats.” 

Shizuo had not noticed the column of numbers at the bottom of the screen. Looking at his own, he saw that they were significantly lower than Izaya’s. 

“Anyway,” Izaya continued as the race began, “if I was going to pick the character I found most attractive, I would have chosen yours.” 

Shizuo’s reaction was immediate. There was the loud tearing of plastic, and he accidentally ripped the head off of his motorcycle. His screen flickered and went black. 

Izaya looked back at him, his expression smug. “Interesting, is that how Shooter became headless too?” 

Shizuo felt his face grow very hot. Over Izaya’s shoulder, he saw two arcade employees heading in their direction. Izaya followed his gaze and immediately began to climb off the motorcycle. 

“I believe that’s our cue to leave.” 

Shizuo waited as patiently as he could for Izaya to climb back into his wheelchair. The moment the informant was seated, Shizuo grabbed the chair by the handles and took off at a fast walk, forcing their way through the crowd. Izaya protested but Shizuo ignored him, and broke into a run only after he saw that the employees behind him had done the same. 

**** 

As Shizuo barreled the two of them down the street, Izaya clung to his armrests so hard that the backs of knuckles turned white. Shizuo slowed four blocks away, once the arcade was no longer in sight, and Izaya’s grip finally relaxed on the armrests. Shizuo’s breath came in great huffs and at first Izaya thought he was angry, but then realized the beast of Ikebukuro was simply out of breath. Izaya had to suppress a smile. 

“I didn’t realize you became an old man while I was away.” 

“Shut up, with you gone I don’t run as much.” 

Izaya gestured to his wheelchair. “Obviously I can say the same.” 

Shizuo made a noise like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to laugh or not. “I’m sorry we had to leave early.” He said finally. 

“Well, I can’t say it was an unexpected end to the evening.” Izaya shrugged. “Honestly, I’m surprised we made it that long without breaking something, you as well as me.” 

Shizuo hummed in agreement. He started to say something, stopped, and then cleared his throat. “Do you want to go back to your hotel now?” 

Izaya didn’t, but he couldn’t think of a reason not to. “Might as well.” He folded his arms across his chest. He did not demand that Shizuo stop pushing his wheelchair, even though the danger was clearly averted. Shizuo turned them down a busy street in the direction of the hotel. It had gotten colder, and when Izaya went out shopping earlier he really had needed clothes; everything in his suitcase was meant for sunny California weather, not the chill of early spring in Tokyo. Izaya was fairly certain that he could see his breath; the faint ghost of his words curled through the air every time he spoke. They were both dressed poorly for the weather, but Izaya had the feeling that Shizuo did not feel the cold as much as he did. 

“So you’re gay?” 

Shizuo’s question made Izaya’s spine snap upright. He was stunned not only by Shizuo’s tactlessness, but his openness as well. Leaning tentatively back in the wheelchair, he nodded once. 

“Yeah.” Izaya felt no self-hatred for this fact, or even embarrassment at admitting it, but waiting for Shizuo’s response made him nervous. 

“And you really _can’t_ see colors?” 

Shizuo sounded odd when he said it, almost desperate. If Izaya had more time, if he had been able to stop and consider his answer, if any small hesitation would not have given him away, then he may very well have admitted that he could see colors. But he did not have that time, and a lie was easier. 

“Sorry to disappoint you, Shizu-chan. I really can’t seem them.” 

“That doesn’t disappoint me.” Shizuo said it immediately, but the feebleness of his voice did not match the strength of his words. 

Izaya twisted around to look at him, but Shizuo’s face was hidden in shadows. “Not even a little?” 

Shizuo did not respond. Instead, he dropped the stuffed cow into Izaya’s lap. “Here, hold this. I can’t hold him, push you, and light a cigarette all at the same time.” 

Izaya took the cow in his hands. “Fine, but it’ll cost you.” 

Leaning backward, Izaya plucked the freshly lit cigarette from Shizuo’s lips. Facing forward once more, he brought it to his own lips and took a long drag, blowing smoke all over the cow. Izaya felt the pace of the wheelchair falter as a direct result of Shizuo’s surprise. A long moment passed, and then Shizuo brought his fist down on the crown of Izaya’s head. It didn’t hurt, and was similar to a small bop. 

“That was mine.” Shizuo growled, but simply reached into his pocket and lit another one. 

They proceeded on in silence for another few minutes. Izaya didn’t really smoke his cigarette, he just let it burn, occasionally flicking the ash into the street. The smell of cigarette smoke always made him think of earlier days, of arguably _better_ days, and he was forced to acknowledge that even the wicked man is not immune to nostalgia. Although it killed him to admit it, there was something familiar about Shizuo; there was something comfortable in knowing exactly where he stood, something relaxing in knowing exactly what space he occupied in the Shizuo’s mind. Recently of course, that dynamic had become more complicated. 

“Don’t you think it’s weird?” Shizuo asked suddenly. 

“Think what’s weird?” 

“That we can spend time together like this. Like, isn’t it weird that we just hung out in an arcade and now I’m walking you home so you don’t get attacked?” 

“I didn’t know that was why you were walking me home.” Izaya raised his fingers to his lips to cover his smile. When he felt capable of responding, he let out a long sigh and leaned back in his chair. “It gets weird if you think about it too much. No matter how you look at it, it doesn’t make sense. So I’ve stopped trying.” 

The wheelchair paused for a moment as Shizuo stomped out his cigarette. “But aren’t you the king of thinking too much? It’s kind of your thing.” 

Izaya squeezed the cow in his hands. “Well these last few days haven’t exactly been normal....being back here, seeing you, it hasn’t felt like reality. I’ll probably come to my senses in a few days and wonder what the fuck I’m doing.” He could see the large cement structure of his hotel rising in the distance. His voice grew quieter. “When that happens...well, I’m sorry.” 

Shizuo let go of the wheelchair just in front of the doors leading to the lobby. Izaya turned back to look at him. He wanted to say something sarcastic or teasing, something to relieve some of the tension, but nothing came to mind. Shizuo, thankfully, came to his aid. 

“Thanks for the cow.” 

Izaya chuckled. “No problem. Now I know what to get you for your birthday.” 

Shizuo looked confused. “You don’t know-” But he stopped, raising his eyebrows. 

“You think I don’t know when your birthday is?” Izaya paused to chuckle. “Ten years is long time Shizu-chan, you can’t help but learn stuff about people, even if you hate them.” 

Shizuo looked at him for a long moment. “I don’t know when your birthday is.” 

Izaya felt the unwanted teeth of disappointment sink into his flesh, cutting into the top of his spine. He gave Shizuo a small smile and shrugged. “Maybe it’s just me then.” 

Shizuo looked uncomfortable. He shuffled his feet. “Well...” He began, “I should get going.” 

“Yes.” Izaya agreed 

Shizuo gave him an awkward half-wave. “I’ll see you.” Again, he looked like he was going to say something more, but then turned and began to walk back down the street. 

Izaya decided to watch him leave, because Shizuo really did look nice in his pale blue button-up. As he watched, a pillar of moonlight suddenly tore through the dark clouds, falling like rain across the city, coloring the buildings and reflecting off windows. It was a pale sort of blue, a cold type of light, like an arctic sky. He wanted to call after Shizuo and point it out, but remembered that he wasn’t supposed to be able to see color. Izaya pulled out his phone and checked the time. It was after midnight; he only had seven days left in Ikebukuro. Without thinking, he sank his right hand into his pocket. 

“Hey.” 

Shizuo turned around, now twenty feet down the street, and Izaya sent a small plastic knife flying towards him. It hit Shizuo on the forehead and then bounced away. 

“I know it’s a long way back to your apartment,” Izaya said, “you can sleep on my couch if you want.” 

Shizuo stared back at him. He rubbed unconsciously at the spot where the knife had hit him. He blinked several times. He opened his mouth. He closed his mouth. Eventually, he nodded. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello!! I'm sorry it has taken so long to post this chapter, I'm back at university and my creative writing classes sap most of my creative energy. 
> 
> I can't exactly say I'm happy with this chapter? It is one of the few that I didn't have meticulously planned out, and I feel like this chapter is a little too silly. That being said, next chapter will be a very swift return to your regularly scheduled angst and poor communication hahaha. I can't say that it'll be posted quickly, but I am very excited to start working on next chapter so that will ideally motivate me a bit. 
> 
> Special thanks to everyone who answered my "what does Shinra call Izaya" question last chapter, it was very helpful :3


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